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A  NOTE-BOOK  IN 
NORTHERN  SPAIN 

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ILLUSTRATED 


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PREFACE. 

TN  the  present  volume  little  has  been  attempted  beyond 
a  brief  description  of  certain  trips  in  the  North  of 
Spain,  and  the  book,  with  few  exceptions,  is  made  up 
from  notes  by  the  way.  Some  care  has  been  given  to 
the  preparation  of  the  illustrations,  many  of  which  are 
from  photographs  specially  taken,  and  it  is  hoped  that 
few  inaccuracies  have  crept  into  the  text.  The  portion 
of  the  Peninsula  described  has  been  thought  to  lack  some- 
what of  that  romantic  interest  which  has  grown  up  for 
the  South,  but  in  Santiago, — the  early  Christian  Cordova, 
—in  the  small  Gallegan  city,  where,  it  is  claimed,  the 
bones  of  Saint  James  still  lie  ;  in  Oviedo,  Zaragoza,  and 
the  little-known  towns  of  the  Pyrenees,  there  is  a  wealth 
of  tradition  and  local  interest  unsurpassed  even  in  the 
South. 

The  writer  takes  pleasure  in  expressing  his  great  ap- 
preciation of  the  unceasing  kindness  and  consideration 
received  at  the  hands  of  Spaniards, — both  friends  and 
strangers,^in  a  series  of  journeys  occupying  many 
months. 

A.  M.   H. 

NEW  YORK,  December,  1897. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — IN  GENERAL        ......          i 

II. — GALICIA       .......        10 

III. — CoRufiA  TO  SANTIAGO         ....       20 

IV. — ASTORGA OVIEDO         .  .  .  .  .46 

V.— PLASENCIA — YUSTE      .....       59 

VI. — MADRID       .......       77 

VII. — THE  BULL-RING          .....       94 

VIII. — MADRID — CALATAYUD          .         .         .         .123 

IX. — THE  LOVERS  OF  TERUEL    .         .         .         .137 

X. — ZARAGOZA    .......     145 

XL — HUESCA — JACA    .         .         .         ...         .164 

XII. — JACA — PANTICOSA         .         .         .         .         .184 

XIII. — SAN    JUAN    DE    LA    PENA — THE    CAVE  OF 

THE  VIRGIN    .         .         .         .         .         .198 

XIV. — LEYRE — PAMPLONA      .         .         .         .         .221 

XV. — ESTELLE.     .......     236 

XVI. RONCESVALLES       ......       248 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

A  SPANISH  RELIGIOUS  PROCESSION  (Photogravure], 

Frontispiece 
PALENCIA,  THE  CRISTO  DEL  OTERO   .... 

SPANISH  STAGE-COACH      .         ...         .         .         .         9 

LUGO        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .11 

ARROW  HEAD  FROM  THE  LACUNA  ANTELA          .         .       12 
REMAINS  OF  A  DOLMEN  AT  NOVA      .         .         .         .        12 

TOWER  OF  HERCULES        .         .         .         ,         .         .16 
RECONSTRUCTIONS  OF  THE  TOWER  OF  HERCULES        .       16 
GALLEGAN  PEASANT  ......  17 

A  GALLEGAN  OX-TEAM    .         .         .         .         .         .22 

THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  SANTIAGO  .         .         .         .25 

SANTIAGO  .         .         .         .         .         .         .  31 

THEODEMIR  DISCOVERING  THE  TOMBS       ...       34 
SUGGESTED  RESTORATION  OF  ORIGINAL  STRUCTURE  .       37 
PLANS  OF  TOMB         .......       39 

MOSAIC  FROM  THE  SUBTERRANEAN  CHURCH       .         .       4! 
WHERE  THE  RELICS  WERE  FOUND     ....       43 

CORUNA    .......  45 

MARAGATOS       .......  47 

RETABLO  BY  BECERRA  IN  ASTORGA    ....       49 

ASTORGA  .........       5° 

RELIEFS  ON  THE  CHEST     ....  52 

OVIEDO — CLOISTERS  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL  ...       55 


Illustrations 


PAGE 


THE  CROSS  OF  THE  ANGELS 57 

YUSTE  (Photograviire) 66 

YUSTE 68 

THE  CROSS -72 

RUINS  OF  YUSTE -73 

Mozo  DE  CORBEL      .         .         .         .         .         •         •       77 

AN  ALPARGATA         ......  78 

SPANISH  SOLDIERS    ......  79 

COURT  FOR  PLAYING  PELOTA     .         .         .  .81 

CABINET  IN  WHICH  THE  POEM  is  KEPT  ...  83 
HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  CHIMNEYS,  XVIth  Century  .  87 
HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  CHIMNEYS,  XVIIIth  "  .  88 
PORTRAIT  OF  ANTONIO  PEREZ  .  „  .  .  .  91 
HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  CHIMNEYS  TO-DAY  .  .  92 

MONA 95 

A  Box  AT  "  Los  TOROS  "  .         .         .         .         .         .96 

CABALLERO  DE  PLAZA        ......       99 

REJON  LANCE,  USED  BY  CABALLERO  DE  PLAZA  .      101 

PARTS  OF  THE  HEAD  OF  THE  PICA    .         .         .         .103 

THE  MULETA   ........      104 

PORTRAIT  OF  FRANCISCO  ROMERO      .         .         .         .105 

BANDERILLAS    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .106 

COSTILLARES     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .     IO8 

CACHETE  OR  PUNTILLA      ......      109 

PEPE  HILLO      . in 

BULLFIGHTER'S  SWORD      .         .         .         .         .         .112 

PORTRAIT  OF  ROMERO .114 

PORTRAIT  OF  MONTES        .         .         .         .         .  115 

FIRE  BANDERILLA .116 

FIRE  BANDERILLA  STRIPPED,  SHOWING  ROCKETS       .      116 

PORTRAIT  OF  ARJONA 119 

A  NOTICE  OF  POSTPONEMENT  .  .  .  .  .121 
HEAD  OF  PICA  OR  LANCE  .  ....  122 


Illustrations  xi 

PAGE 

CHILDREN  MARCHING        .         .         .         .         .         -125 

SPANISH  KNIVES  .         .         .         .         .         .128 

CARDINAL  FRANCISCO  XIMENEZ  DE  CISNEROS    .         .130 
TOMB  OF  CARDINAL  XIMENEZ   .         .         .         .         .130 

OBJECTS  WHICH  BELONGED  TO  CARDINAL  XIMENEZ,      131 
WOMAN  OF  THE  PROVINCE  OF  GUADALAJARA      .  133 

CALATAVUD — PLAZA  DE  SAN  ANTON          .         .  135 

THE  LOVERS  OF  TERUEL  {Photogravure)  .         .  137 

BANNER  TAKEN  BY  ALFONSO  VII  FROM  THE  MOORS  .      140 
THE  SEO  .........      149 

BENEDICT  XIII         .         .         .         .         .         .         .150 

THE  EBRO  AT  LOGRONO    .         .         .         .         .  157 

TOWER  OF  TRUJILLO          .         .         .         .         .         .160 

ZARAGOZA  (^Photogravure)          .         .         .         .         .160 

PEASANTS  OF  LERIDA         .         .         .         .         .         .164 

THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  HUESCA    .....      165 

SEAL  OF  THE  TEMPLARS    .         .         .         .         .         .168 

ACOLYTES  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  HUESCA         .         -171 
THE  BELL  OF  ARAGON       .         .         .         .         .         .      1 76 

THE  CLOCK  TOWER — AYERVE  .         .         .         .         .      1 79 

PALACE  OF  THE  MARQUIS  OF  AYERVE         .         .         .181 
THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  JACA          .....      187 

PANTICOSA  (Photogravure)         .         .         .         .         .194 

SAN  JUAN  DE  LA  PENA      ......      199 

THE  NEW  MONASTERY      ......     204 

A  CHAPEL  OF  SAN  JUAN  .         .         .         .         .         .     208 

EARLY  TOMBS  ........     209 

ROYAL  BURIAL  CHAMBER          .         .         .         .         .210 

GOTHIC  DOORWAY     .         .         .         .         .         .         .212 

DOOR  OF  THE  FAITHFUL   .         .         .         .         .         -213 

CLOISTERS;  SAN  JUAN  DE  LA  PENA   ....     215 

WASHERWOMEN         .         .         .         .         .         .         .217 

A  SPANISH  GYPSY  .     222 


xii  Illustrations 

PAGE 

PEASANTS  OF  NAVARRE      .  .231 

FERRY       .....  .  .     233 

SANGUESA         ......  .     233 

SPANISH  SOLDIERS    .......     234 

PLAZA  DE  LA  CONSTITUCION,  PAMPLONA    .         .         .     235 
CAPITALS  OF  THE  EARLY  CATHEDRAL  OF  PAMPLONA,     237 
ESTELLA  .....  ...     242 

OLITE       ...  .....     249 

RONCESVALLES  .         .         .         .         .  .250 


H  mote^Boofe  in  IRortbern  Spain 


A  NOTE-BOOK  IN  NORTHERN  SPAIN 


IN  GENERAL 

"A  man  has  been  in  Spain,  The  facts  and  thoughts  which  the  trav- 
eller has  found  in  that  country  gradually  settle  themselves  into  a  determi- 
nate heap  of  one  size  and  form  and  not  another.  That  is  what  he  knows 
and  has  to  say  of  Spain.  He  cannot  say  it  truly  until  a  stifficient  time  for 
the  arrangement  of  the  particles  has  elapsed." 

EMERSON 

IN  Spain  it  is  less  the  "  color  "  and  "  romance  "  of  which 
we  hear  so  much,  than  the  strange,  sombre  setting  of 
it  all — the  wonderful,  melancholy  landscape,  unvaried,  sul- 
len, monotonous  to-day,  to-morrow  ablaze  with  a  fiery 
life  ;  impetuous,  restrained,  indifferent,  responsive.  Look 
deep  enough  into  its  heart  and  you  may  read  the  heart  of 
the  Spaniard. 

There  is  no  single  meaning  in  this  mysterious  expanse 
of  mountain  and  plain  and  yellow,  crawling  river.  To  call  it 
barren  would  be  as  descriptive  as  to  call  sky  blue.  It  is  far 
too  protean  for  classification,  for  the  analysis  which  else- 
where permits  a  symbolic  meaning  to  single  words. 

The  treeless  road,  like  a  strip  of  gleaming  metal  beaten 
out  across  the  distance,  and  inch-heavy  with  dust,  beneath 


2  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

a  blinding  sun,  flecked  at  long  intervals  by  the  sullen  red 
of  a  Valencian  blanket,  lies  in  a  wonderful  dead  silence. 
There  are  no  song  birds,  no  trees  for  the  wind  to  play 
through.  Only  now  and  again  the  long,  solemn,  mourn- 
ful wail  of  a  bell  comes  faintly  and  awakes  us  to  the  fact 
that,  far  off,  gray  and  dull  and  scarcely  different  in  line 
from  the  vast  dead  stretches  about  it,  rises  doggedly  with 
line  upon  line  of  narrow,  round-headed  windows,  some 
square,  solitary  tower  of  brick — Roman  in  shape  and  tra- 
dition. A  sound  beyond  all  description  in  its  meaning,  in 
its  subtle  relation  to  the  lives,  the  destinies,  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  those  we  pass.  Their  whole  existences  are 
epitomized  in  its  dull  reverberations.  "  Death "  and 
"  Hope  "  it  keeps  repeating,  and  between  there  is  an  ever 
unanswered  question. 

The  imagination  has  wings  in  this  place.  Soon  one  is 
breathing  the  unreal.  Fanaticism  is  natural,  chivalry  a 
necessity.  The  boom  of  the  outside  world  dies  away  and 
a  new  world  arises — one  of  fanciful  shapes.  The  senses 
grow  keener  and  quicker.  The  clear,  calm  air  is  filled 
with  a  vitality  not  of  the  body.  And  in  the  long  silences, 
when  sound  is  forgotten,  we  seem  to  hear  something.  And 
the  old  priest  who  sits  beside  one,  in  the  broad  black  hat 
and  gown,  would  smile,  were  one  to  speak  to  him  of  it, 
and  say,  perhaps,  that  the  soul  speaks,  only  in  the  city 
you  cannot  hear. 

"  L 'Espagne  est  le  pays  d*  Europe  dont  nous  nous  faisons 
ridte  la  plus  inexacte"  says  a  recent  French  writer.  And, 
in  fact,  our  knowledge,  largely  had  at  second  hand,  colored 
with  antipathy  of  race  or  religion,  too  often  produces  an 
attitude  of  contempt,  pity,  or  aversion  for  the  country 
which  all  but  blocks  the  end  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Yet  she  cares  less  for  what  you  may  think  of  her  than 


In  General  3 

does  any  other  nation  in  Europe,  and  you  can  force  her  to 
accept  fewer  of  your  ideas  than  any  other.  It  has  been  a 
tradition  with  her  that  people  beyond  the  Pyrenees  are 
not  friendly  people,  and  she  is  not  prone  to  look  within 
and  discover  the  cause  of  their  dislike.  The  United 
States  has  taken  her  the  sewing  machine  and  the  Life 
Insurance  Company,  and  she  has  welcomed  the  latter  at 
least.  She  likes  gambling  games,  and  will  even  not  refuse 
to  take  a  hand  with  Death  himself.  For  have  not  they 
been  friends  of  old  ?  But  she  moves  slowly,  very  slowrly, 
and  always  considers  herself  just  a  little  better  than  you, 
and  will,  always  politely,  tell  you  so  when  need  be. 

Spain  gives  us  pride — which  Spain  to  all  the  earth 
May  largely  give,  nor  fear  herself  a  dearth* 

She  is  in  more  than  one  sense  a  composite  nation,  and 
as  such  is  the  more  difficult  to  see  and  know  as  a  whole. 
Here  the  fragmentary  middle-age  condition  of  Italy  was  re- 
peated. Catalufia,  Aragon,  Castile,  Andalucia,  are  not  mere 
geographical  terms.  Each  presents  its  distinct  national  and 
special  character.  Tradition,  habits,  sports,  costume,  have 
all  their  peculiar  expression  and  local  difference. 

The  brawny  Aragonese,  the  harsh-tongued  industrious 
Catalan,  the  Celtic-souled  Gallegan,  the  dignified  gentle- 
man of  Castile  and  Leon,  the  fiery,  knife-loving  Andaluz, 
are  united  under  one  name  and  one  religion  as  Spaniards 
and  Catholics  into  a  loosely  knit  whole,  wherein  the  seeds 
of  revolution  and  ism  take  ready  root. 

But  things  have  changed  since  1819,  when  Bowring 
wrote  : 

"  One  might  surely  expect  that  in  a  country  possessing  eight  arch- 
bishops, more  than  fifty  bishops,  and  more  than  a  hundred  abbacies, 

*  Churchill. 


4  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

with  a  jurisdiction  almost  episcopal,  '  in  which,'  to  use  the  language  of 
a  Spanish  writer,  '  there  are  more  churches  than  houses,  more  altars 
than  hearths,  more  priests  than  peasants  '  ;  in  which  every  dwelling 
has  its  saint,  and  every  individual  his  scapulary,  one  might  expect  to 
see  some  benefits,  some  blessings,  resulting  from  this  gigantic  mass  of 

ecclesiastical  influence.  Let  us, 
then,  look  upon  a  picture  drawn 
by  the  hand  of  an  acknowledged 
master  : 

' '  Our  universities  are  the  faith- 
ful depositaries  of  the  prejudices  of 
the  middle  age  ;  our  teachers,  doc- 
tors of  the  tenth  century.  Beardless 
noviciates  instruct  us  in  sublime 
mysteries  of  our  faith  ;  mendicant 
friars  in  the  profound  secrets  of 
philosophy  ;  while  barbarous  monks 
explain  the  nice  distinctions  of 
metaphysics. 

'  'Who  goes  into  our  streets  with- 
out meeting  cofradtas*  processions, 
or  rosaries  ;  without  hearing  the 
shrill  voice  of  eunuchs,  the  braying 
of  sacristans,  the  confused  sound  of 
sacred  music,  entertaining  and  in- 
structing the  devout  with  compositions  so  exalted,  and  imagery  so  roman- 
tic, that  devotion  itself  is  forced  into  a  smile  ?  In  the  corners  of  our 
squares,  at  the  doors  of  our  houses,  the  mysterious  truths  of  our  re- 
ligion are  commented  on  by  blind  beggars  to  the  discordant  accom- 
paniment of  an  untuned  guitar.  Our  walls  are  papered  with  records 
of  "  authentic  miracles,"  compared  to  which  the  Metamorphoses  of 
Ovid  are  natural  and  credible. 

'  In  the  fictions  and  falsehoods  they  have  invented  to  deceive 
their  followers,  in  their  pretended  visions  and  spurious  miracles,  they 
have  even  ventured  to  compromise  the  terrible  majesty  of  heaven. 
They  shew  us  our  Saviour  lighting  one  nun  to  put  cake  into  an  oven  ; 
throwing  oranges  at  another  from  the  sagrarto,  tasting  different  dishes 

*  A  religious  fraternity  composed  of  persons  not  necessarily  of  the  church  but 
bound  by  certain  rules.     "  Ni  ft'a  ni porfi'a,  ni  entra  en  cofradi'a"  says  the  proverb. 


In  General  5 

in  the  convent-kitchens,  and  tormenting  friars  with  childish  and  ridic- 
ulous playfulness.  They  represent  a  monk  gathering  together  frag- 
ments of  a  broken  bottle,  and  depositing  in  it  the  spilt  wine,  to  console 
a  child  who  had  let  it  fall  at  the  door  of  the  wine-shop.  Another  re- 
peating the  miracle  of  Cana  to  satisfy  the  brotherhood,  and  a  third 
restoring  a  still-born  chicken  to  life,  that  some  inmate  of  the  convent 
might  not  be  disappointed. 

'  They  represent  to  us  a  man  preserving  his  speech  many  years 
after  death,  in  order  to  confess  his  sins  ;  another  throwing  himself 
from  a  high  balcony  without  danger,  that  he  might  go  to  mass.  A 
dreadful  fire  instantly  extinguished  by  a  scapulary  of  Estarnene.  They 
shew  us  the  Virgin  feeding  a  monk  from  her  own  bosom  ;  angels  hab- 
ited like  friars  chanting  the  matins  of  the  convent,  because  the  friars 
were  asleep.  They  paint  the  meekest  and  holiest  of  men  torturing  and 
murdering  the  best  and  the  wisest  for  professing  a  different  religious 
creed.'  " 

How  often  the  question  is  asked  as  to  the  causes  which 
have  brought  Spain  down  from  her  ancient  position  in 
the  affairs  of  Europe,  and  it  is  a  question  not  impossible 
to  answer,  though  the  great  cause  is  probably  to  be  found 
in  a  direction  different  from  that  which  is  generally  sup- 
posed. Pride,  a  weak  monarch,  a  dissolute  court,  religious 
intolerance,  all  these  are  admirable  starting  points  from 
which  to  prove  a  nation's  decline.  But  Spain  has  been  by 
no  means  unique  in  the  possession  of  these  requisites.  A 
close  examination  of  the  intricate  mass  of  intrigue  and 
counter-intrigue  and  plot  at  the  capital  reveals  a  condition 
differing  from  that  of  some  other  countries  only  in  being  a 
little  later  in  occurrence.  In  fact,  all  these  are  mere 
effects,  the  cause  is  the  absence  of  that  which  has  devel- 
oped the  great  nations  of  the  earth,  the  cause  on  which 
civilization  rests,  the  great  primitive  developing  agency 
—the  trading  spirit.  Spain  lacks  the  trading  spirit.  For 
seven  centuries  she  was  a  battlefield.  During  that  time, 
while  she  was  keeping  the  Mohammedan  wolf  from  the 


6  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

door  of  Europe,  there  was  no  chance  for  the  development 
of  the  trading  spirit.  What  growth  came  in  a  measure  to 
some  of  the  coast  cities  was  the  result  of  local  commercial 
relations  finding  an  extension  and  expansion  at  sea — not 
the  exchange  of  commodities  between  nation  and  nation. 
The  spirit  of  getting  by  the  good  right  arm  grew  and  pro- 
duced its  tradition,  while  the  precarious  cultivation  of  land 
for  food,  an  occupation  ever  more  and  more  removed  from 
the  leaders,  became  the  work  of  an  ignorant  and  unre- 
spected  class. 

With  the  absence  of  trade  goes  the  absence  of  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  outside  world  and,  though  a  certain  general 
knowledge  was  brought  back  by  the  Europe-conquering 
soldiers  of  Charles  and  Philip,  it  was  a  knowledge  of  how 
easily  gain  could  be  made  in  the  old  way,  rather  than  a 
stimulus  to  the  merchant. 

Without  the  logical  traditions  of  buying  and  selling, 
raised  up  through  generations,  Spain  could  hardly  avoid 
the  errors  of  government  which  the  want  of  such  traditions 
brings.  She  could  scarcely  hope  not  to  become  the  victim 
of  each  and  every  scheme  for  a  financial  millennium,  as  a 
nation,  which  we  are  all  accustomed  to  smile  at  when  played 
in  the  more  self-evident  form  of  personal  charlatanry. 
And,  most  of  all,  the  dignity  of  work  had  been  lost.  The 
Spanish  laborer  pitied  himself — and  was  pitied. 

Up  to  the  beginning  of  the  present  Cuban  war,  how- 
ever, a  better  condition  had  been  developing.  Education 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  outside  world  were  bringing  home 
to  this  nation  that  to  be  the  proudest  man  in  the  world, 
it  is  well  to  have  a  basis  for  that  pride  in  tangible  rather 
than  traditional  things,  and  of  so  excellent  a  nature  have 
I  found  the  Spaniard  when  one  knows  him,  that  I  cannot 
help  believing  in  his  ultimate  development. 


In  General  7 

But  few,  I  know,  cross  the  threshold  of  the  Spanish 
house  to  find  how  good  a  man  at  heart  the  owner  is.  He 
is  proud,  it  is  true,  and  does  not  much  favor  the  stranger, 
but  it  is  the  pride  of  a  reserved  nature,  not  of  a  weak  one. 
We  must  be  slow  in  our  judgement  of  this  man.  Let  us 
both  be  charitable  ;  what  he  thinks,  as  what  we  think,  is 
the  growth  of  a  thousand  years. 

To  the  east  of  Cuenca  and  south  of  Zaragoza,  the  moun- 
tain district  threaded  by  the  ancient  Bilbilis  road  of  the 
Romans  is  undisturbed  by  the  scream  of  the  locomotive. 
The  valleys  of  the  Guadelope,  Gaudalaviar,  the  Jucar,  the 
J  iloca,  and  the  upper  Tagus  are  yet  to  be  exploited.  Only  a 
short  time  has  passed  since  the  long  route  around  by  Ler- 
ida  to  Zaragoza  was  shortened  by  the  new  railroad  from 
Tortosa  up  the  Ebro,  and  it  will  be  long,  perhaps,  before 
the  coach  from  Sagunto  to  Gerica  and  Teruel  finds  no 
passengers. 

Some  day,  when  a  coast  line  is  completed  and  the 
foreigner  may  run  rapidly  from  Barcelona,  by  way  of  Val- 
encia, Alicante,  Cartagena,  Almeria  and  Malaga  to  Gi- 
braltar or  Cadiz,  with  the  sea  always  at  hand,  then  the 
travelling  world  will  begin  to  have  some  idea  of  that  won- 
derful southeastern  coast,  than  which  there  is  nothing 
more  beautiful  on  the  whole  Mediterranean. 

But  to  the  high  central  portion  of  Spain,  general  travel- 
lers will  discover  the  journey,  especially  if  made  in  the 
heat  of  summer,  a  somewhat  disappointing  undertaking. 
Burgos,  Palencia,  Valladolid,  Zamora,  Salamanca,  or  Avila 
are  hot  enough  in  summer  and  cold  enough  in  winter  to 
discourage  most  sightseers. 

The  slowness  with  which  Spain,  as  compared  with 
France,  has  built  her  railroads  is  best  evidenced  by  laying 


8 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


the  official  guide-maps  side  by  side.  But  the  cause  also  is 
to  be  found  on  the  map.  Fertile  fields,  reached  by  low 
grades  along  navigable  rivers,  present  a  different  tale  from 
high  plains,  shallow  streams,  and  mountains  whose  passage 
makes  the  reputation  of  engineers.  And  so,  in  many  of 
the  mountain  provinces  you  must  still  take  the  stage,  and 
give  thanks  that  you  are  so  well  carried  and  that  you  do 
not  have  to  go  groaning  up  to  town  in  an  ox-cart  or  astride 
a  mule's  pack  saddle. 


PALENCIA 

THE   CRISTO    DEL    OTERO 


It  is,  in  fact,  only  about  one  hundred  years  since  the 
stage  roads  began,  under  the  energetic  government  of  the 
minister  Floridablanca,  to  have  any  real  existence.  Spain 
appears  to  have  been  quite  as  far  behind  in  developing  her 
road  system  as,  later,  with  the  railroad. 

A  French  minister  at  that  time  describes  the  stage  as  a 
"clumsy,  inconvenient  carriage  drawn  by  mules,  which 
have  no  other  spur  or  rein  than  the  voice  of  their  guides. 
On  seeing  them  harnessed  together,  and  to  the  shafts 


In  General  9 

merely  by  cords,  and  observing  them  traversing  as  it  were 
at  random,  the  winding  and  sometimes  unfrequented  roads 
of  the  Peninsula,  the  traveller  at  first  conceives  himself  as 
deriving  all  his  dependence  for  safety  from  the  care  and 
kindness  of  Providence  ;  but  on  the  slightest  appearance 
of  danger,  a  simple  and  short  exclamation  from  the 
mayoral,  restrains  and  directs  these  tractable  animals." 
At  that  time  a  stage  ran  between  Bayonne  and  Madrid  in 
from  six  to  eight  days  ! 

The  great  vehicles,  especially  along  in 
the  north  of  Galicia,  where  the  stage  com- 
panies in  summer  do  a  good  business,  are 
^ppr     packed  with  travellers.  These  are  piled 
in    helter-skelter,    first    filling, 
then  overflowing  and,   though 
the  law  is  clear  that  no  one  shall 
ride  on  the  front  seat  with  the 
driver,  the  -bescante,  that  place 

SPANISH  STAGE-COACH  * 

is  usually  the  first  one  filled. 

Smoking  and  swearing  are  the  chief  diversions.  In  the 
latter  all  are  artists,  carrying  invention  beyond  the  pale  of 
credibility.  A  peculiarly  forcible  oath  is  usually  the  signal 
for  an  interchange  of  good-humored  nods. 

"  That 's  one  on  the  devil,"  said  a  fellow-traveller,  lean- 
ing over  to  me,  after  a  lively  burst  of  expletives. 

"  Why  does  he  swear  so  ?  "     I  inquired. 

"  Because  he  is  the  mayoral"  said  the  other  with  a 
shrug. 


II 

GALICIA 

"  For  you  must  know  that  Galicia  is  so  poor  and  mean  a  Countrey,  that 
there  's  no  place  for  bragging" 

A  LADY'S  JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN,  1692 


IN  this  north-eastern  corner  of  Spain  lies  the  melancholy 
little  land  of  the  Gallegan,  a  land  of  rain  and  mist, 
where  the  scenery  is  exquisite,  where  hotels  are  famously 
bad,  man  in  an  early  stage  of  development,  and  devotion 
the  chief  recreation.  Galicia  consists  of  four  small  pro- 
vinces :  Lugo,  Orense,  Pontevedra  and  Coruna  and  is  as 
little  Spanish  in  tongue,  manners  or  habits  as  is  well 
possible. 

In  a  general,  irresponsible  way  this  country  may  be 
geographically  called  square.  It  is  watered  by  no  less 
than  three  thousand  streams.  It  possesses  one  third  of 
the  harbors  of  Spain  and  has  little  or  no  commerce  for  them, 
the  most  hardy  race  of  people  and  the  poorest,  the  remains 
of  one  of  the  Apostles,  and  the  worst  government.  It  is 
Celtic  to  the  last  degree  and  its  language  has  been  called 
the  mother  of  Portuguese  —  the  child  having  become 
slightly  refined  and  broadened  by  contact  with  the  world. 

As  usual  with  the  people  of  a  poor  country,  its  natives 
are  passionately  attached  to  their  homes.  No  people  in 
Europe  make  such  sad  exiles.  The  word  morina  (home- 


Galicia  1 1 

sickness),  spoken  of  a  Gallegan,  draws  the  mind  in- 
stinctively to  pictures  of  morbidness  and  suicide,  as  the 
readers  of  Senora  Bazan  are  quite  aware. 


LUGO 


With  that  pride  which  is  the  birthright  of  small  peoples, 
the  Gallegan  knows  no  land  so  good  as  his  own,  no  lan- 
guage to  compare  with  his,  no  literature  with  such  felicities 
of  expression  !  For  a  straggling  little  literature  he  has, 
and  his  unknown  poets  tell  with  fervor  of  the  scenery,  the 
age,  the  dignity  and  what  not  of  their  little,  wet  half-acre. 

But  Galicia  has,  nevertheless,  a  somewhat  considerable 
interest  for  us  if  it  be  only  in  the  study  of  those  influences 
or  lack  of  influences  which  bring  her  to  us  so  unchanged 
from  the  middle-age  turmoil.  She  stood  somewhat  apart 
from  the  worst  of  Saracenic  invasion,  although  overrun 
more  than  once.  Almanzor  reached  the  very  sanctuary  of 
her  patron  saint  and  left  it  a  heap  of  ruins.  Other  scarce 
less  deadly  storms  have  passed  over  her ;  but  she  has  been, 
on  the  whole,  well  away  from  the  modifying  and  moulding 
external  influences  at  work  in  the  Castiles,  Leon,  Aragon 
and  Cataluna. 

Prehistoric  remains  have  been  found  to  some  extent  in 
Galicia.  The  caves  of  Rey  Cintoulo  near  Mondofiedo  and 
that  of  A  Furada  d'os  cans,  have  yielded  moderate  stores 


12 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


ARROW  HEAD  FROM  THE 
LAQUNA  ANTELA  (ENLARGED) 


of  fossil  bones,  and  the  remains  of  lake-dwellers,  or  lagoon- 
dwellers,  are  not  uncommon    at  the    low   mouths  of  the 

rivers.  Traces  of  submerged 
towns  are  said  to  have  been 
found  at  Santa  Cristina,  Reiris, 
Doninos,  Carragal,  Antela  and 
elsewhere. 

The  discovery  of  Kjoekken- 
moeddings  or  shell-heaps  some- 
what similar  to  those  in  Den- 
mark adds  another  peculiar 
interest  to  this  coast,  although 
it  is  to  be  regretted  that  more 
thorough,  scientific  examinations 
have  not  been  made  of  these  heaps.  We  are  told  of  a 
writer  who,  on  the  discovery  of  a  remarkable  deposit,  found 
among  the  broken  bones  a  human  head  to  which  he 
attached  apparently  only  enough  value  to  take  it  home 
and  store  it  carelessly  in  a  closet  within  reach  of  his  chil- 
dren. It  has  disappeared. 

Later  inhabitants  than  these  have  left  traces  in  Galicia. 
About  those  shad- 
owy people  of  the  far 
past  we  only  know 
however  what  may  be 
gathered  from  their 
broken  dwelling- 
places  and  the  in- 
struments they  have 
left.  Later  traditions 
have  come  to  blot 
them  out  the  more 
completely  and  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  curious  folk- 


REMAINS  OF  A  DOLMEN  AT  NOYA 


Galicia  13 

lore  of  this  Celtic  northland  was  not  gathered  thoroughly 
long  ago.  Each  one,  no  doubt,  of  the  prehistoric  monu- 
ments that  are  left,  has  had  its  legend  affixed  to  it  soon  or 
late,  and  although  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  we  should 
have  here  found  in  a  Gallegan  folk-lore  many  repetitions 
of  older  far-removed  tales,  yet  the  remaining  people  would 
have  no  doubt  had  their  own  as  well.  Murguia  relates 
the  following  : 

In  the  mount  d'as  croas,  situated  in  the  parish  of  San 
Martin  Salcedo,  Province  of  Pontevedra,  there  dwelt  long 
ago  an  enchanted  lady  of  remarkable  beauty.  She  lived 
in  a  palace  which  existed  in  the  interior  of  the  mount  and 
in  which  there  was  so  great  a  treasure  that  the  report  of 
her  wealth  reached  as  far  as  Cadiz. 

Many  sought  to  discover  her  but  failed,  although  the 
exact  directions  were  set  forth  in  a  popular  rhyme,  yet  she 
was  not  infrequently  seen  by  the  inhabitants  who,  fearing 
her,  always  fled  at  her  approach. 

One  day  a  boy  who  was  guarding  his  father's  sheep 
came  upon  the  lady  seated  upon  a  stone.  She  was  comb- 
ing her  hair  with  a  golden  comb  and  when  the  shepherd 
endeavored  to  pass  her  she  called  to  him  and  begged  that 
he  would  give  her  a  sheep. 

The  boy,  greatly  alarmed,  fled  and,  arriving  home,  re- 
lated to  his  father  what  had  occurred.  The  latter,  instantly 
bethinking  him  that  the  whole  flock  might  be  lost,  sent  his 
son  back  with  instructions  to  give  the  lady  what  she  wished. 

When  he  arrived,  however,  at  the  spot  the  flock  had  dis- 
appeared and  it  was  only  after  a  prolonged  search  that  he 
discovered  the  enchanted  lady  guarding  it. 

She  then  told  him  to  go  to  his  father  and  bid  him 
come  to  her  at  once.  The  boy  obeyed,  and  soon  after 
the  terrified)  man  made  his  appearance.  She  reassured 


14  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

him,  however,  and  an  interview  took  place  the  details  of 
which  were  kept  a  profound  secret. 

It  was  soon  noised  about,  however,  that  these  two 
were  now  charged  with  supplying  the  wants  of  the  en- 
chanted lady  of  the  mount,  and  it  was  also  noticed  that 
their  material  affairs  went  well  and  that  they  grew  more 
prosperous  every  day. 

But,  a  long  while  after  this,  the  man  was  taken  very 
ill.  The  doctor  gave  him  up  as  lost.  His  wife  at  this 
time  leaving  the  house  by  chance,  encountered  a  lady 
at  the  doorway  who  asked  her  how  her  husband  was. 
The  woman  did  not  reply,  but  on  re-entering  the  house 
was  astonished  to  find  the  same  lady  seated  beside  her 
husband,  and  the  latter  so  much  restored  that  he  was 
able  to  speak  and  declare  himself  out  of  danger. 

The  curious  wife,  however,  was  not  long  in  question- 
ing her  husband,  and  although  the  latter  refused  to  reply 
for  some  time,  he  at  last  spoke  and  disclosed  the  secret 
(whatever  it  may  have  been)  of  the  Enchanted  Lady. 

His  punishment  was  not  long  delayed.  During  that 
very  night  his  wife,  as  she  afterward  declared,  heard  strange 
sounds  as  of  blows,  and  cries  and  complainings,  and  in  the 
morning  the  man  was  found  dead  and  covered  with  bruises 
as  of  heavy  blows. 

The  capital  of  Galicia  should  be  approached  from  the 
sea ;  one  might  add  after  a  transatlantic  voyage.  Nor 
have  I  in  mind  any  such  six  days'  outing  as  we  grow 
tolerant  of  on  English  or  French  or  German  steamers. 
My  own  memory  reverts  to  a  journey  which  began  in  the 
harbor  of  Havana,  where  a  shifting,  talking,  jostling, 
eager,  excited  crowd  was  seeing  its  friends  off  on  an  early 
spring  day  ;  to  a  steamer  whose  decks,  indiscriminately  at 


Galicia  15 

the  service  of  first  and  second  cabin,  were  made  unten- 
antable by  suffering  humanity  two  hours  after  leaving 
port ;  to  a  cabin  where  a  crowd  of  thinly  clad  wretches 
huddled  and  suffered  for  fifteen  days  ;  to  fifteen  days  of 
calm  sea  and  clear  sky  and  smells,  and  the  daily  slaughter 
of  sheep  or  cattle  or  fowls,  watched  eagerly  by  the  passen- 
gers from  the  deck  above ;  to  hatless  women  in  untidy 
dressing-gowns ;  to  men  in  slippers ;  children  in  bare  feet, 
a  hundred  little  miseries  of  food  and  air,  and  heat  and 
noise — and  then  Corufia.  Those  fifteen  days  between 
Cuba  and  the  first  land  will  set  the  fountains  of  milk  and 
honey  flowing  for  any  imagination.  This  unromantic, 
sombre  corner  of  Spain,  too,  is  a  fine  preparation  for 
what  is  to  follow,  and  if  we  can  find  satisfaction  here  we 
shall  not  fail  to  be  properly  impressed  in  the  south,  where 
costume  does  not  die  and  the  hotel  proprietor  is  learning 
his  lesson  of  the  value  of  the  picturesque. 

Perhaps  we  may  regret,  however,  after  a  few  days  that 
the  hotel  proprietor  has  not  learned  a  little  at  least  of  his 
lesson  here ;  that  he  had  less  time  on  his  hands  for  sitting 
by  a  brasero  inside  the  big  door,  through  which,  during 
the  rainy  part  of  each  day,  the  cold,  damp  air  sweeps  in 
gusts  each  time  an  inquisitive  guest  looks  in.  A  mantle 
of  fog  and  mist  Galicia  wears.  Hard  and  rough  old  land 
though  she  be,  like  her  native  Celt,  her  tears  flow  easily. 

The  Province  of  Corufia,  with  a  population  of  over 
600,000,  has  a  history  filled  with  achievements  on  a  small 
scale.  As  is  the  individual  Gallegan  life,  so  hers  has  been 
circumscribed.  The  city  dates  from  very  early  times, 
when  the  trading-vessels  of  the  eastern  Mediterranean 
found  their  way  along  the  coast  to  make  this  a  conven- 
ient halting-place.  Her  famous  Tower  of  Hercules,  com- 
manding the  harbor  and  marking  a  way  for  her  ships, 


16 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


has    had    its    counterpart    from    the    earliest   days.     The 
keels   of    Phoenician    galleys    coasting   from    the    ancient 

cities  of  Tartessus,  Gades 
or  Belon,  have  grated  in 
the  pebbly  coves  at  the 
foot  of  this  tower.  The 
Phoenicians  sought  Spain, 
chiefly  southern  Spain, 
for  her  minerals.  Their 
colonies  dotted  the  pres- 
ent Andalucia,  and  be- 
yond the  Pillars  of  Her- 
cules their  galleys  began 
early  to  steer  eagerly  to 
the  Scilly  Islands  of  Brit- 
ain, the  "  Tin  Islands  " 
(Cassiterides). 

Tin,  from  its  use  as  an 
TOWER  OF  HERCULES  alloy  in  copper,  became  of 

(AT  PRESENT)  .  i   •, 

vast  importance  to  a  world 

whose  arms  were  of  that  metal.  The  Phoenicians  for  a 
time  kept  the 
secret  of  their 
discovery.  No 
doubt  the  last 
point  of  land  in 
Spain  became  of 
increasing  i  m  - 
portance  to  the 
mariners  in  frail 

'  '     RECONSTRUCTIONS  OF  THE  TOWER  ,OF  HERCULES  SUGGESTED 

great     circular  BY  MURGUIA 

tower  of  the  promontory  has  perhaps  gladdened  with  its 


Galicia 


flaring  beacon  the  hearts  of  not  a  few  of  these  forgotten 
strangers  just  beginning  their  return  to  the  distant  East. 

There  were  gold  mines  in  Galicia  then,  we  are  told,  but 
where  is  not  located,  although  that  they  were  of  any  great 
extent  is  to  be  doubted.  Even  the  precious  dust  of  the  Tagus 
could  not  have  been  so  extensive  as  would  be  demanded  of  a 
modern  mine.  With  the  Gallegan  gold,  silver  was  also 
found  as  high  as  three  per  cent  and,  in  the  Peninsula  in  other 
places,  it  is  reported,  as  high  as  twelve  and  one  half  per  cent. 

Tin  of  Galicia  was  plentiful  in  Roman  days  as  in  the 
time  of  the  Phoenicians  and  later  comers,  though  it  must 
afterwards  have  given  way  in  the  market  before  the  pro- 
duct of  the  richer  and  more  profitable  mines  of  Britain. 

There  have  been  few  world-stirring  or  epoch-making 
events  in  this  little  out-of-the-world  Galicia.  Her  history 
like  that  of  other  small,  self-centred 
districts  is  of  vast  importance  only  to 
herself.  Her  development  has  been 
slow  and  slight,  her  name  little  mixed 
with  outside  affairs.  But  she  is  eter- 
nally famous  as  the  resting-place  of  -v- 
the  Spanish  patron  saint,  Santiago,r 
who  lies  in  the  city  of  his  name. 

On  a  recent  trip  to  Coruna,  I  re- 
call a  talk  with  Juan  Diaz,  a  mayo- 
ral and  a  good  Gallegan.  He  had 
been,  he  said,  a  soldier  in  the  war, 
and  had  a  reputation  for  hard  fight- 
ing and  the  drinking  of  aguardiente. 
I  found  him  in  a  low  room  filled  with  the  customary  haze 
of  tobacco  smoke.  Twenty  men  or  more  sat  about  small 
tables  smoking,  drinking  and  talking  in  monotonous  tones. 
There  was  some  gambling. 


QALLEQAN   PEASANT 


1 8  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

Their  half-eager  expression  was  subdued  by  that  calm 
dignity  which  we  are  told  to  expect  in  Spanish  faces  ;  not 
the  Latin  dignity  of  Castile  but  rather  the  gravity  which 
among  these  sturdy  people  of  the  misty  north  country, 
where  nature  has  fashioned  a  new  Ireland  and  a  second 
Irishman,  masks  a  Celtic  explosiveness. 

At  one  table  there  was  heavy  playing.  Silver  pesetas 
instead  of  the  customary  "  little  dogs  "  were  piling  up. 
The  host  leaned  indifferently  in  the  doorway,  while  his 
wife  poured  out  a  glass  of  aguardiente  for  a  boy  of  sixteen. 
The  wind  was  blowing  outside  and  a  swinging  door  creaked 
and  groaned  unnoticed. 

My  friend,  the  mayoral,  had  been  drinking  and  talking 
to  me  for  some  twenty  minutes  in  a  low  tone.  He  spoke 
of  the  taxes  and  their  increase  ;  and  went  on  telling  me 
especially  of  the  pressure  of  the  duties  on  food,  and  of  the 
high  imposts  on  all  provisions  entering  town. 

"  We  are  being  ground  down  below  what  we  can  earn," 
he  said,  changing  from  Spanish  to  the  Gallegan  dialect  for 
the  benefit  of  the  others.  The  door  outside  slammed  a 
period  to  this  preliminary  outbreak. 

A  face  or  two  turned  our  way ;  a  chair  creaked  here 
and  there.  The  greater  number  were  too  deeply  inter- 
ested in  their  game  to  notice  us.  The  host  in  the  door 
shifted  his  position  and  held  his  pipe  in  his  hand. 
Sande's  small,  quick  eyes  recognized  the  signs  and  he 
began  an  eager  discussion. 

Soon  he  formally  laid  down  his  text.  His  voice  rose 
above  the  wind's  roar.  The  interest  in  the  play  had 
steadily  waned  and  all  eyes  were  upon  him.  His  voice 
rang  out  and  I  was  astonished  at  the  sudden  flow  of  elo- 
quence which  followed.  His  face,  which  had  been  flushed 
and  excited  when  he  began,  became  rather  pale  and  his 


Galicia  19 

gestures  quick  and  nervous.  Some  of  his  listeners  rose, 
as  he  came  step  by  step  down  between  the  double  row  of 
tables,  appealing  now  by  questions,  now  by  sarcasm,  sneers 
or  direct  invective,  sending  his  words  in  a  rapid  torrent 
among  them. 

Glasses,  cigarettes,  games,  all  were  forgotten.  He 
held  his  audience  fixed.  Soon  the  excitement  was  in- 
tense. He  told  them  rapidly  of  his  personal  service  in 
the  war  and  sketched  the  crossing  of  a  river,  under  fire, 
when  he  had  been  a  bearer  of  despatches,  establishing  his 
right,  like  a  true  orator,  to  speak  to  them  of  their  wrongs. 

This  lasted,  perhaps,  five  minutes,  and  then  Sande 
with  a  fine  dramatic  flourish  of  the  arm,  made  his  way 
slowly  back  and  seated  himself  by  me  once  more,  amid  a 
great  buzz  of  tongues  and  cries  and  praise.  That  was  all. 
No  one  else  rose.  The  bubble  had  burst.  A  few  mo- 
ments and  play  was  resumed  here  and  there,  then  argu- 
ment died.  Fitfully  raised  voices  fell  almost  at  once. 
The  speech  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  There  was  no 
result  / 

"  Do  you  North-Americans  treat  your  poor  as  we  treat 
ours  ? "  the  orator  said  to  me,  leaning  over  and  lighting 
the  cigarette  he  had  been  rolling. 

I  did  not  tell  him  that  in  the  row  of  tables  and  the 
little  heaps  of  stacked-up  money,  there  was  perhaps  more 
of  an  answer  and  explanation  to  causes  than  he  dreamed  of. 

Here  in  Galicia  the  blood  of  the  Celt  is  no  mixed 
stream  in  the  veins  of  the  Gallegan  and  it  would  be  no 
far-drawn  parallel  to  find  in  the  eloquence  of  this  stage 
driver  the  same  original  spirit  which  brought  together  on 
a  completed  scale,  thirty  years  ago,  the  monster  meetings 
of  an  O'Connell,  or  of  a  Feargus  O'Connor,  when  Ireland 
was  for  repeal — without  result ! 


Ill 

CORUNA   TO    SANTIAGO. 

"All  within  this  city  is  as  still  and  strong  as  the  granite  of  its  own 
monuments." 

MURGUfA 

IT  is  early  morning  and  there  are  few  words  at  the  door 
as  the  mayoral  springs  on  the  box  and  takes  the  reins. 
Snap,  snap,  goes  the  whip.      "Andaf  Audaf"  cries  Angel 
Roda,  the  zagal,  running  along  the  line  of  animals  slashing 
right  and  left. 

The  zagal  is  the  second  in  command  of  a  Spanish 
stage-coach.  His  function  is  to  urge  on  at  every  oppor- 
tunity the  lagging  or  exhausted  animals,  and  his  work  is 
much  harder  than  that  of  his  superior.  Wherever  the 
coach  begins  the  ascent  of  a  hill  this  swift  little  attendant, 
whose  name,  of  Arabic  origin,  signifies  a  brave  and  courage- 
ous young  man,  is  down  to  earth  and  swings  his  long  lash 
which  stings  and  bites  the  welt-marked  sides  of  the  horses 
or  mules.  At  his  onslaught  there  is  a  jerk,  a  sudden  lurch 
and  the  great  coach  with  its  six  horses  and  four  mules  be- 
gins to  stagger  ahead.  Along  the  streets  we  roll  and 
sway,  over  the  great  slabs  of  pavement  with  deep  holes 
worn  between,  rumbling  and  heaving  on,  passing  a  double 
line  of  people  all  curious  to  see  us  swing  by ;  on  past  the 
little  market-square  with  its  umbrella-covered  booths  ;  its 


Coruna  to  Santiago  21 

lines  of  brilliant,  glazed  and  unglazed  pottery ;  its  piles  of 
melons,  figs,  oranges,  apricots,  grapes  and  nuts  ;  past  the 
fountain  where  the  men  and  women  stop  in  picturesque 
groups  to  stare  at  us  or  shout  good-bye  to  Sande  or  the 
zagal.  We  are  ever  the  moving  attraction  of  a  double  gazing 
line,  till  the  outskirts  of  the  town  are  reached  and  we  enter 
the  great  carretera  or  stage-road,  magnificently  kept  and 
dotted  in  outline,  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  with  a  double 
row  of  upright,  conical  guard-posts  of  stone  at  the  sides. 

The  lines  tighten,  the  zagal  leaps  to  the  ground  from 
his  little  seat  under  the  box  of  the  mayoral  and  runs  along- 
side the  mules.  His  whip  snaps  continuously.  The 
mules  and  horses  leap  in  the  traces  ;  on  their  flanks  where 
the  hair  is  uncut  sullen  ridges  are  raised,  and  the  closely 
clipped  backs  are  marked  as  with  hot  iron. 

There  are  thirteen  passengers  on  board,  five  on  top 
under  the  heavy  rawhide  hood,  five  in  the  main  body  of 
the  coach  and  two  in  the  little  box  over  the  front  wheel, 
shut  in  with  glass  like  a  railway  compartment — the  berlina. 

This  then  is  the  Pilgrimage  to  Santiago,  the  Romeria. 
We  are  going  toward  the  place  of  the  Cid's  adventures 
with  the  leper.  Angel  Roda  and  Sande,  the  mayoral, 
seem  to  feel  all  our  anxiety  to  reach  the  pilgrim's  goal  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  And  not  alone  of  the  Middle  Ages,  for 
to-day  we  pass  a  pair  of  barefooted  pilgrims  on  their  way 
to  this  wonderful  St.  James  of  Compostella,  and  later  we 
learn  that  a  number  of  them  go  each  year,  not  only  Span- 
iards but  French,  Italians  and  others.  The  cool  fresh  air 
blows  into  our  faces  as  we  mount  the  slopes  beyond  the 
valley,  and  at  twenty  minutes  past  one  we  feel  the  keen 
breath  of  the  ocean  and  a  small  strip  of  hazy  blue  water  is 
in  sight.  At  that  moment  I  chance  to  sneeze,  and  Angel 
Roda  leans  from  his  narrow  perch  to  mutter  "  Jesus- 


22 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


Maria  !  "  to  keep  the  devils  from  jumping  down  my  throat. 
Domingo  Sande  is  dressed  in  a  short  velvet  coat  with  a  red 
faja,  or  sash,  about  his  waist  and  a  little  Basque  cap 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  He  is  small  and  light  and 
waspish.  When  he  is  not  too  busy  with  his  horses,  he  is  re- 
lighting his  cigarette  which  continually  goes  out.  Our  com- 
panions are  a  chance  acquaintance  from  Vigo,  a  Basque  of 
Bilbao,  a  silent  fellow  in  green  checked  trousers  from  Pon- 
tevedra,  a  strange  assortment  of  parti-colored  nondescripts 
and  two  dignified  Spanish  gentlemen,  interested  in  the  min- 
ing at  Santiago,  and  whom  the  Basque  hopes  to  interest 
still  further,  he  whispers,  in  a  railroad  from  Coruna  to 
Santiago,  not  only  for  the  mine  and  its  advance,  but  for  a 
passenger  and  freight  traffic.  It  would  cost  two  million 
dollars,  he  says.  Farm  products  seem  to  be  all  that  could 
be  had  for  transportation  and  the  passenger  traffic  must  be 
light  indeed.  The  distance  is  seventy  kilometres. 

"Ho-af  Ho-a!  dnja!  dnjaf"  calls  the  zagal  as  we 
reach  the  road  which  turns  off  to  Lugo  and  start  up  the 
grade.  Here  we  meet  a  long  line  of  ox-wagons  with  huge, 

almost  solid,  wheels ; 
one  great  spoke 
across  the  middle. 
They  are  loaded  with 
sand  and  their  driv- 
ers have  taken  off 
their  boots  and  stuck 
them  on  the  uprights 
at  the  corners.  Twen- 
ty pairs  of  inverted 
feet  seem  to  be  thus 
upraised,  through  which  double  row  we  look,  as  through 
a  vista,  down  the  side  of  the  hill. 


A  GALLEQAN  OX-TEAM 


Coruna  to  Santiago  23 

We  pass,  now  and  then,  women  sifting  barley  and  oc- 
casionally a  load  of  wood,  in  short  sticks.  It  is  curious  to 
note  the  devices  employed  to  avoid  the  use  of  wood  here 
where  it  is  so  scarce.  The  fences,  where  stone  is  not  used, 
are  mud  walls  capped  with  vine,  and  a  sort  of  basket-work 
frame  attached  to  stone  uprights  is  substituted  for  gates. 
All  houses  are  of  stone,  built  up  of  flat  pieces  on  their 
sides  interfiled  with  mud  and  overgrown  with  vine  or 
grasses. 

Potatoes,  corn,  onions  and  cattle  are  exported  to  Eng- 
land. Blackberries,  figs  and  chestnuts  grow  everywhere 
along  the  road.  Pine  trees  are  raised  for  England.  The 
bread  I  have  always  been  told  was  good,  but  it  seems  to 
have  been  my  fortune  to  find  it  always  sour.  Their  corn- 
bread  or  pan  de  mats  has  usually  the  consistency  of  dough 
and  the  feeling  of  damp  india-rubber.  It  contains  the 
vital  spark  of  indigestion. 

^Hola  !  Aprieta  !  Aprieta-a-a  !  La  Bonita-a-a  !  Bril- 
lante !  Anda !  Anda!"  cries  our  indefatigable  zagal  as 
we  pass  a  group  of  women,  beating  wheat  with  heavy 
flails.  The  delantero  or  outrider  on  the  foremost  near 
horse  drives  his  spurs  home  and  we  start  forward  for  a 
while  at  a  trot,  while  boys  get  on  behind  as  we  pass  through 
a  little  village  and  cries  of  "Whip!  Whip!"  (Idtigo! 
Idtigo  ! )  are  raised. 

One  of  our  passengers  is  a  heavy,  thick-lipped  man 
whose  underjaw  protrudes.  He  buys  and  eats  raw  eggs 
at  each  relay  station  and  declares  them  a  most  refreshing 
beverage.  The  others,  especially  a  monk  inside,  are 
satisfied  with  wine. 

At  our  third  halt,  on  asking  for  a  glass  of  water  at  the 
door  of  a  house,  I  am  cordially  invited  to  enter.  By  the 
kitchen  fire  an  old  woman  sits  mechanically  turning  flat 


24  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

cakes,  somnolent  chickens  roost  on  perches  in  two  funereal 
rows  along  the  walls,  seemingly  under  the  impression  that 
it  is  night,  or  perhaps  like  good  Spaniards  taking  their 
siesta  in  the  heat  of  the  day.  Four  rabbits,  the  not  im- 
probable elements  of  a  future  pie,  skip  over  each  other  in 
a  corner,  watched  longingly  by  a  tall  thin  cat  with  numer- 
ous kittens  ;  while  quietly  asleep  across  one  side  of  the 
room,  and  snoring  in  peaceful  content,  lies  an  enormous 
hog  cheek  by  jowl  with  one  of  the  various  future  heirs  of 
all — a  baby  of  two  or  three  years — sleeping  almost  at  his 
side.  To  prevent  the  escape  of  any  part  of  the  assembled 
throng  a  half-door  blocked  the  way,  over  which  only  the 
sleepy  chickens  may  pass,  or  the  cat,  when  domestic  duties 
permit. 

We  crossed  the  Tambre  River  at  6.30  on  a  small  curi- 
ous bridge  with  jutting  angles,  ornamented  by  a  carved 
coat-of-arms.  Below  a  grove  of  tall  pines,  which  rose  on 
a  hill  to  the  left,  lay  a  small  town. 

As  we  lumber  on,  the  fine,  penetrating  dust  rises  in  a 
heavy  cloud  and  the  fleas  work  industriously.  We  have 
changed  our  equipment  of  men  and  horses  now  several 
times  and  our  last  zagal  is  decked  in  a  blazing  red  coat 
with  black  velvet  trimmings.  One  still  notices  how  great 
is  the  economy  of  wood  ;  even  in  the  frames  of  the  wagons 
we  pass  the  same  sort  of  basket  work  used  in  the  gates  is 
employed.  Sometimes  a  network  of  rope  stretched  to 
four  uprights  is  substituted,  but  this  is  for  carrying  cut 
straw  and  like  material.  After  six  o'clock  along  these 
roads  when  the  day's  work  is  ending  we  pass  numbers  of 
peasants — men  and  women  (the  man  usually  walking  and 
the  woman  riding).  One  of  these  latter  was  tenderly 
carrying  a  small,  new,  brilliantly  washed  pig — a  sight  to 
which  one  soon  grows  used  in  Spain.  She  was  followed, 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  SANTIAGO 


Coruna  to  Santiago  27 

for  contrast,  by  a  carriage  bearing  the  flaring  arms  of  a 
marquis — warning  us  that  we  were  approaching  our  des- 
tination. 

At  7.30  Santiago  was  in  sight  and  the  two  spires  of 
the  Cathedral  rose  from  the  hollow  below  us  between  the 
hills.  Scattered  houses  soon  appeared ;  later  the  town 
and  its  long,  broad  streets  and  a  little  farther  on  to  the 
right  a  great  gilded  Virgin  stared  at  us  as  we  passed,  as 
though  saying  to  herself  :  "  Even  here,  in  my  very  strong- 
hold, do  these  find  their  way  ! "  To  the  right  then,  and 
down  a  steep  hill,  and  on  to  the  halting  place  among  an 
expectant  crowd,  where  we  were  soon  in  the  thick  of  the 
fray  with  the  hotel  boys. 

We  fellow-travellers  took  dinner  together  and  discussed 
Spain  and  her  great  future,  and  incidentally  the  olive,  its 
cultivation,  and  the  methods  of  improvement  which  the 
natives  were  so  slow  in  adopting.  A  great  part  of  the 
crop  went  to  the  United  States,  it  was  said,  and  the  de- 
mand was  increasing  and  would  increase  for  there  seemed 
to  be  little  faith  in  the  California  olive, — though  American 
petroleum  has  been  sent  here  crude,  and  refined  in  the 
country,  and  only  recently  American  butter  was  tried  as 
an  experiment  at  Vigo  and  Coruna  and  Bilbao. 

About  half-past  nine  I  walked  out  along  the  dimly 
lighted  arcaded  streets,  over  broad  flag  pavements,  like 
those  of  Coruna,  to  the  Cathedral.  With  me  went  the  sereno 
or  watchman  who,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  his  staff  surmounted 
by  a  steel  axe,  was,  as  he  stalked  on,  a  theatre  character, 
majestic  in  the  moonlight.  As  we  stood  in  the  solemn, 
silent  square  under  the  tower  with  the  clear  sky  and  moon- 
light above  and  about  us,  the  great  bell  began  to  strike. 
Its  heavy  hammer  of  wood  sent  a  strange,  mysterious 
voice  across  the  deserted  space.  It  was  a  time  for  still 


28  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

walking  and  wondering  and  half-falling  asleep,  and  so 
back  into  the  past,  that  wonderful  past  which  is  not  dead 
in  Spain  but  sleeps  and  which  at  times,  and  under  the 
proper  spell,  seems  to  revive.  Was  the  sound  of  passing 
feet  not  that  of  a  great  army  of  departed  pilgrims  ?  Was 
not  the  square  filled  with  white,  upturned  faces  in  the 
moonlight  ?  Were  there  not  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
voices  mingled  together  in  answer  to  the  great  sobbing 
beat  of  that  grave  singer  high  above  us  ?  Beat !  beat  t 
beat !  and  again  beat !  beat  !  beat !  and  the"  moonlight 
shivered  along  the  pavement  and  the  ghostly  steps  were 
still  and  the  voices  were  hushed. 

Then,  suddenly,  at  my  side,  as  though  the  soul  of  all 
had  really  spoken  out  with  a  passionate  human  cry,  there 
rose  the  chanting  call  of  the  sereno.  I  started  as  the  long 
wail  sprang  from  the  hollow  stones  beside  me.  It  filled 
the  air  ;  it  beat  against  the  black  and  silver  walls  of  moon- 
light and  shadow  ;  it  rose  with  its  wonderful,  quavering 
invocation  and  fell  to  an  earthly  cry  of  agony.  On  the 
face  of  the  man  who  leaned  upon  his  glittering  axe-head 
I  could  see  an  expression  of  exultation.  Into  these  often- 
repeated  words  he  was  throwing  not  only  his  physical  but 
his  spiritual  nature.  His  very  soul,  bred  up  among  these 
wonderful  walls  where  history  had  folded  her  wings  while 
man  went  slowly  by,  had  caught  up  and  learned  its  un- 
consciously instilled  thread  of  meaning.  This  watchman's 
call  was  a  prayer  for  life  among  such  wealth  of  death. 
"Ave  Maria  Purissima.  Son  las  diez,  y  sereno." 

I  asked  a  boy  to  point  my  way  and,  following  his  direc- 
tion as  I  thought,  took  the  wrong  street. 

"  To  the  right,  Pilgrim,  to  the  right,"  I  heard  his  shrill 
voice  call  out  far  behind  me,  and  I  waved  him  a  thanks 
and  went  on  my  corrected  way.  Beggars  asked  for  the 


Coruna  to  Santiago  29 

usual  perro  chico,  or  little  dog,  always  hoping  for  a 
two-cent  piece,  however — a  perro  grande,  or  big  dog. 
The  streets  at  ten  were  deserted.  Only  the  sereno  re- 
mained, who  here  gives  his  hourly  cry  after  one  in  the 
morning.  At  Burgos  he  began  at  eleven.  The  guardia 
civil  with  his  angular  hat,  bright  yellow  belt,  red-tipped 
collars  and  cuffs  and  white  gloves,  so  familiar  along  our 
way  from  Coruna — one  meets  a  pair  of  them  at  inter- 
vals on  every  stage-road  in  Spain — is  here  little  in  evi- 
dence. I  was  not  much  surprised  to  find  Englishmen 
sitting  at  our  table  in  Santiago  ;  there  were,  besides,  four 
Portuguese  and  two  Frenchmen.  In  what  other  place  in 
Europe  would  there  have  been  no  understanding  between 
these  wanderers  ?  The  Portuguese  were  innocent  of 
French  ;  the  French  ignorant  of  Spanish  and  the  solemn 
Englishmen  sat  and  talked  stolidly — in  English. 

Journeys  between  Cathedral,  University  and  bookstore 
left  in  my  mind  a  memory  of  a  maze  of  crooked,  branch- 
ing streets.  The  little  squares  lie  scattered  over  the  town 
like  the  bodies  of  strange,  deformed  creatures  blindly 
stretching  out  their  convulsed  arms  in  every  direction. 
Under  the  low  arcades  it  is  cool  even  at  midday  and  there 
is  a  wonderful  calmness — the  calmness  of  a  dying  city. 
Such  a  sensation  one  may  have  in  most  of  the  places 
along  the  way  in  northern  Spain.  Santiago,  no  longer 
the  goal  of  fanatics  from  every  corner  of  Europe,  no 
longer  dreamed  of  and  longed  for  during  the  weary 
months  of  a  desperate  personal  struggle  to  reach  the  door 
of  its  Cathedral,  no  longer  the  bestower  of  eternal  life  for 
those  who  fall  hopelessly  by  the  way,  seems  to  mumble  and 
gasp  and  turn  cold  at  the  last  and  the  voice  of  the  great 
bell,  the  moonlight  gone,  the  spell  broken,  sends  out  a  hol- 
low sound  that  makes  us  start — a  veritable  death-rattle. 


30  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

Before  one  enters  the  grand  portal  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Santiago,  that  grave  portal  which  the  feet  of  countless 
thousands  of  pilgrims  have  approached  in  religious  awe 
and  veneration,  there  must  have  already  come  the  feeling 
of  strangeness  and  isolation  which  the  old  town  has  the 
power  of  rousing.  How  desolate  the  city  is  !  How  un- 
like, in  the  most  remote  degree,  anything  we  had  expected  ! 
These  small,  narrow,  unimposing  streets ;  the  poverty ; 
the  stillness  !  Where  is  the  smell  of  incense  which  we 
had  half-expected  to  meet  at  every  turn  ?  "  Why  do  we 
hear  no  hymns  resounding  ?  Where  are  the  throngs  that 
should  be  passing  along  beneath  those  low  arcades  ?  Are 
these  mean  buildings  all  that  the  spiritual  metropolis  of 
Spain  can  boast  ? 

But  we  may  forget  the  town  and  all  our  disappointment 
when  we  look  up  at  the  grand  facade  above  us.  This 
mighty  pile  of  stone  is  the  expression  of  an  influence  once 
felt  over  all  Europe.  In  the  belief  that  within  these  walls 
lay  the  body  of  one  of  the  companions  of  Christ,  the  whole 
Christian  world  fixed  its  attention  upon  this  little  Gallegan 
town 

It  must  be  noted  at  the  first  in  studying  this  cathedral 
that  we  are  in  reality  not  examining  an  original  building. 
The  architect  did  not  here  strike  out  along  general  lines 
of  his  own,  but  rather  closely  followed  a  model  already  in 
existence.  This  is  found  to  be  true  of  some  other  cathe- 
drals in  Spain,  though  to  a  less  degree.  It  was  George 
Street  who  first  pointed  out  the  resemblance  here  to  the 
earlier  Church  of  Saint  Sernin  at  Toulouse,  where  the  chief 
difference  is  in  the  material  used  for  the  work,  the  one 
being  of  granite,  the  other  of  brick  and  stone.  The 
French  church  was  begun  by  Saint  Raymond  in  1060,  and 
as  Street  observes:  "By  a  strange  coincidence,  S.  Sernin 


Coruna  to  Santiago  33 

boasts  of  having,  among  the  bones  of  several  of  the  apostles, 
those  of  Saint  James ;  though  of  course  this  would  be 
strongly  denied  at  Compostella"  Street  goes  on  to  give 
the  dimensions  and  details  of  the  building. 

The  story  of  the  finding  of  the  tomb  and  remains  of 
Saint  James  the  Greater,  at  Santiago,  is  in  no  way  mere 
tradition  in  the  mind  of  the  Spaniard.  The  relation  is 
fused  and  welded  into  the  great  mass  of  Spanish  belief. 
The  whole  matter  rests  upon  a  foundation  of  custom  and 
age  too  firm  for  the  assailment  of  doubt.  It  is  not  with 
history  that  this  may  be  settled,  but  with  the  Church. 

At  the  end  of  the  eighth  or  beginning  of  the  ninth 
century,  a  hermit  named  Pelagius  succeeded  in  gaining  a 
reputation  of  the  durable  nature  which  only  greatness,  ac- 
cident or  religion  has  ever  been  able  to  confer  on  men. 
In  this  case  the  fact  to  which  the  celebrity  was  due  was 
the  sight  of  a  sudden  shower  of  stars  which  fell,  it  seemed 
to  the  observer,  upon  a  spot  not  far  distant.  This  not 
altogether  unprecedented  phenomenon  awoke  in  the  breast 
of  the  pious  anchorite  a  sensation  of  the  profoundest  won- 
der and  awe  and,  when  the  same  marvellous  fact  was 
reported  as  having  manifested  itself  in  a  neighboring  town, 
he  could  no  longer  refrain  from  carrying  his  strange  tidings 
to  the  Bishop  of  Iria,  Theodemir  by  name. 

Having  heard  the  tale,  the  good  bishop  became  greatly 
interested  and  at  once  determined  to  make  an  examina- 
tion. Excavations  were  undertaken  on  the  spot  and  soon 
a  narrow  stairway  was  unearthed,  descending  which  the 
searchers  came  to  a  door  and  entered  a  subterranean 
church  or  crypt,  where,  by  the  light  of  torches,  Theodemir 
soon  discovered  an  altar  and  three  tombs.  A  close  ex- 
amination of  these  revealed  the  stupendous  fact  that  the 
bishop  and  his  companions  were  in  the  presence  of  the 


34 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


sacred  remains  of  Saint  James  the  Apostle  and  two  of  his  dis- 
ciples. On  the  mosaic  floor  they  could  still  read  the  names 
of  the  latter,  Theodorus  and  Athanasius,  and  a  picture  of  a 
man  with  a  halo  bore  the  name  of  the  saint  himself. 


THEODEMIR  DISCOVERING  THE  TOMBS 


In  the  manuscript  of  the  Tiimbo  A  in  the  Archive  of 
Compostela,  of  the  year  1 129,  and  in  another  manuscript — 
the  Historia  Compostelana,  of  the  thirteenth  century — the 
Bishop  of  Iria  is  represented  making  his  discovery.  A  de- 
scription of  the  first  of  these  miniatures  is  given  by  Fita 
and  Guerra : 

"  An  arch,  the  upper  part  of  which  is  of  gold  and  the  lower  of 
jasper  with  red  and  dark-blue  veins,  sustained  by  columns  of  dull 
jasper  with  capitals  of  gold,  recalls  the  primitive  vaulting.  From  the 
key-stone  of  the  arch  hangs  a  lamp  of  that  precious  metal.  Three 


Coruria  to  Santiago  35 

sarcophagi,  placed  lengthwise  and  uncovered,  fill  the  space,  the  one  in 
the  middle  standing  above  the  others.  The  first  is  of  green  jasper,  the 
tomb  of  the  Apostle  yellowish,  the  one  in  the  rear  of  red  marble.  Over 
the  chief  tomb,  waving  a  censer  with  the  left  hand,  and  pointing  to  it 
with  the  index  finger  of  the  right,  is  an  angel.  A  golden  halo  sur- 
rounds his  head,  the  tunic  is  violet,  the  mantle  green,  the  wings  gold 
and  violet.  At  the  foot  of  the  sarcophagus  stands  the  prelate  of  Iria. 
His  mitre  of  the  ninth  century  is  white  with  a  golden  fringe.  The  in- 
fulas  fall  upon  the  shoulders  and  are  red.  He  wears  a  golden  tunic 
with  sleeves  of  gold  brocade,  fitted  and  forming  spirals,  and  a  green 
mantle.  His  right  hand  grasps  a  golden  crosier  with  an  oaken  staff, 
and  his  left  also  points  to  the  apostolic  sepulchre  in  a  questioning  at- 
titude. The  bishop  is  graybearded  and  above  his  head  and  running 
as  far  as  the  lamp  is  this  inscription  :  TEODEMIR'  EPISKOP' 
(Teodemirus  episcopus).  Outside  the  crypt  are  seen  the  constructions 
due  to  the  king  Alphonso  el  casto  :  light  towers  of  gold  with  narrow 
windows,  houses  painted  light  green  with  white  bands,  windows  of  dark 
green,  and  circular  earthen  tiles  above  a  golden  cornice,  and,  near  the 
key  of  the  arch,  two  small  towers  or  air-vents  of  reddish  color." 

Such  is  a  picture  of  the  scene  given  us  by  an  artist 
more  than  seven  hundred  years  nearer  to  the  reputed 
occurrence  than  are  we.  Yet  even  he  was  three  whole 
centuries  removed  from  it,  and  in  three  centuries  much 
may  be  done — with  faith. 

The  explanation  of  the  presence  of  the  body  of  Saint 
James  is  very  simple.  At  the  death  of  the  future  Guardian 
of  the  Peninsula,  he  having  previously  expressed  his  wish 
to  rest  in  Spain,  his  seven  disciples,  largely  recruited  in 
that  country,  at  once  begged  and  obtained  his  body,  and 
starting  for  Joppa,  there  sought  for  a  ship  to  take  them  to 
their  native  land.  The  ship  at  once  made  its  appearance 
miraculously  and  Scyla  cum  Carybdi  atque  periculosis  syrti- 
bus,  manu  Domini  gubernante,  devitatis,  primum  ad  Iriensem 
portumfelicinavigiopervenerunt*  Having  arrived  at  Iria 

*  Hist.  Compost.,  Lib.  I.,  Cap.  i. 


36  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

without  one  stroke  of  the  oars  or  the  need  of  a  sail,* 
they  disembarked,  and  marching-  with  their  burden  four 
leagues  to  the  north,  following  the  ancient  Roman  road 
to  Brigantium,  they  arrived  at  Liberodunum,  where  they 
are  described  by  Leo  III.  as  coming  upon  a  monstrous 
idol,  and  near  it  a  most  opportune  collection  of  stone- 
cutters' implements.  With  these  they  at  once  fell  upon 
the  idol  with  the  right  ready  rage  of  holy  men  and  it  was 
soon  no  more. 

Having  thus  righteously  cleared  the  way,  they  pro- 
ceeded to  construct,  with  these  same  implements,  a  fit  tomb 
for  the  holy  remains  they  bore.  Soon  a  small  building 
was  completed,  and  having  laid  the  body  in  its  last  rest- 
ing-place, they  consecrated  the  altar  and,  after  singing 
hymns,  went  their  way  to  gather  to  the  fold  of  the  new 
faith  such  as  they  might  in  the  surrounding  country. 

Two,  however,  of  their  number  seem  to  have  found  it 
well  to  stay  behind.  For  the  rest  of  their  lives  Theodorus 
and  Athanasius  remain  to  guard  the  tomb  and,  at  the  end, 
their  bones  find  a  resting-place  to  the  right  and  left  of 
those  of  their  master.  So  for  the  tradition. 

Guerra  and  Fita,  basing  their  conclusions  on  the  manu- 
script miniatures,  on  excavations,  and  on  the  construction 
of  like  buildings  in  Italy  and  Palestine,  have  made  an  at- 
tempt to  give  a  detailed  restoration  of  the  primitive  edifice 
itself.  The  plan  presents  a  square  structure  with  walls  of 
heavy,  cut  stone,  joined  in  the  Roman  fashion,  each  side 
or  face  of  the  building  measuring  eight  metres.  They 
also  give  a  fragment  of  Roman  mosaic,  resembling  other 
pieces  encountered  in  various  parts  of  Spain. 

The  corner-stone  of  the  religious  reputation  of  the  city 
of  Santiago  de  Compostela — Saint  James  of  the  Field  of 

*  Morales:  Cr.  Gen.,  Tom.  4. 


Coruna  to  Santiago 


37 


SUGGESTED  RESTORATION  OF  ORIGINAL  STRUCTURE 


Stars,  or  of  the  Field  of  the  Apostle,  as  Lafuente  pre- 
fers— was  laid  with  the  discovery  of  the  sacred  bones. 
Throughout  the  whole 
Christian  world  ran  a 
thrill  of  fervent  joy  at 
the  announcement. 
Perhaps  to  the  court 
of  the  far-off  Charle- 
magne himself  some 
worn  but  eager  mes- 
senger brought  the  talc 
out  of  that  unknown 
Spain  of  Christian  and 
infidel,  while  the  court 
of  that  greatest  figure 
in  Europe  bowed  attentive  and  awe-struck. 

Nearer  the  scene  we  find  a  prompt  recognition  of  the 
event  in  the  presence  of  Alfonso  el  casto  who,  with  his 
court,  came  to  pay  homage  at  the  miraculous  shrine.  The 
latter  was  rebuilt  by  the  king's  orders.  Privilege  after 
privilege  was  showered  upon  the  new  church,  which 
promptly  arose.  All  land  within  three  miles  of  it  fell 
by  royal  grant  to  the  monks,  and  Ordono  I.,  in  853,  doubled 
this  allotment.  In  899  Alfonso  III.  removed  the  building 
of  stone  and  mud  constructed  by  the  pious  Alfonso  el  casto 
and  raised  in  its  place  a  church  of  fine  marble,  brought 
block  by  block  on  the  shoulders  of  captive  infidels  from 
the  shores  of  the  Duero  and  the  Tamega. 

It  is  probably  in  the  doubtful  battle  of  Clavijo  that 
Santiago  first  appears  most  prominently  as  a  national 
protector.  As  almost  every  fact  in  regard  to  this  event 
is  questionable,  it  has  not  been  unnatural  that  the  saint 
should  have  here  received  a  due  tribute  in  the  form  of  ac- 


38  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

knowledged  miracles.  A  host  of  infidels  are  shown  on  the 
point  of  overwhelming  the  Christians.  The  disastrous 
struggle  of  the  day  has  ended  and  the  night  has  closed  in. 
The  Christians  are  in  despair.  The  King  Ramiro,  dis- 
couraged and  hopeless,  has  retired  to  rest,  when  a  won- 
derful vision  comes  to  him.  Saint  James,  in  all  the  glory 
of  the  blessed,  appears.  There  is  a  short  conversation. 
After  having  assured  the  despondent,  but  resourceful 
monarch,  that  all  will  be  well  with  his  arms,  the  saint 
retires  ! 

In  the  morning  the  king  calls  his  followers  and  in 
a  speech,  which  Mariana,  as  usual,  gives  verbatim,  informs 
them  that  they  are  about  to  be  blessed  with  victory. 

The  battle  begins  with  fury,  and  thereupon  the  saint, 
in  fulfilment  of  his  promise,  appears  upon  a  white  horse, 
bearing  in  his  hand  a  white  banner  with  a  red  cross  and 
leads  the  Christians  in  person.  The  Moors  betake  them- 
selves to  instant  flight  and  the  day  is  won.  Sixty  thousand 
of  the  enemy  are  left  upon  the  field  !  * 

Almost  exactly  one  hundred  years  passed  away  in  quiet 
after  the  rebuilding  of  the  church  by  Alfonso,  when  one 
day  the  rumor  came  that,  in  the  Moorish  territory  to  the 
south,  a  danger  was  threatening.  An  expedition  was 
forming  under  the  leadership  of  that  scourge  of  Christians, 
Almanzor.  Soon  the  story  was  verified  by  no  less  author- 
ity than  the  appearance  of  the  unconquered  leader  himself, 
with  a  strong  army. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  powers  of  Saint  James 
at  this  juncture,  he  certainly  was  given  every  opportunity 
to  display  them,  but  for  all  that  Almanzor  seems  to  have 
had  no  difficulty  in  making  a  clean  sweep  of  the  holy  town 
and  of  leaving  it  a  mass  of  ashes.  The  white  charger  of 

*  Mariana,  Bk.  VII.  Chap.  xiii. 


Coruna  to  Santiago 


39 


Clavijo  nowhere  made  his  appearance.  No  banner  with  a 
blood-red  cross  was  unfurled,  and  not  one  of  those  fine 
structures  which  had  so  long  gladdened  the  eyes  of  the 


Fig.  A — i.  Subterranean  passage.  2. 
Tombs  of  Theodoras  and  Athanasius,  in 
the  floor.  3.  Place  where  sarcophagus  of 
Saint  James  rested.  4.  Where  the  burial- 
chamber  was  entered.  5.  Antechamber  or 
subterranean  church.  6.  Where  the  sub- 
terranean church  was  entered.  7.  Point 
corresponding  to  door,  facing  East  on  floor 
above.  8.  Where  the  relics  were  found. 


Fig,  B — Longitudinal  section  AB.  3. 
Wall  of  Roman  bricks  in  the  tomb  of  Atha- 
nasius, consisting  of  nine  courses  of  ten 
bricks  each.  Above  this,  an  ancient  pave- 
ment of  earthen  blocks ;  beneath,  a  later 
one  of  marble.  Over  all,  a  Roman  mosaic 
pavement.  4.  Heap  of  broken  granite  and 
marble.  5.  Heap  of  fine,  light  dust.  9. 
Building  rubbish  with  which  this  part  was 
filled  in  the  XVIIth  century. 

Fig.  C — Latitudinal  section  CD.  (For  4 
and  5  see  Fig.  £).  6.  Earth,  rubbish  and 
scattered  human  bones  thrown  here  in  the 
XVIIth  century.  7.  Part  of  an  ancient 
column.  8.  Brick  walls  of  the  tombs  of 
Athanasius  and  Theodorus.  10.  Earth 
with  which  the  tomb  of  Athanasius  was 
filled. 


faithful  were  left  to  tell  the  tale.     The  story  of  an  old  man 
seated  among  the  ruins  and  questioned  by  Almanzor,  who 


40  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

spared  him  when  he  learned  that  he  was  guarding  the 
remains  of  one  of  the  associates  of  Christ,  is  as  reliable  as 
that  the  horse  of  the  conqueror  burst  and  died  from  drink- 
ing at  the  porphyry  font  in  the  Cathedral,  or  that  the 
divine  vengeance  fell  upon  the  Moorish  host  after  the  de- 
struction of  the  city.  The  rival  Christian  Mecca  was 
blotted  out  by  a  master-hand  at  annihilation.  Almanzor 
marched  away  bearing  in  his  train  the  great  bells  of  the 
Cathedral,  which  he  carefully  set  up  in  the  Mosque  of 
Cordova,  inverted,  as  lamps,  where  they  burned  for  the 
infidel,  we  are  told,  until  the  good  Saint  Ferdinand,  using, 
as  had  Alfonso  and  others  before  him,  the  backs  of  Moor- 
ish captives  as  a  substitute  for  beasts  of  burden,  returned 
them  to  their  original  places. 

But  it  was  by  no  means  to  be  supposed  that,  because 
the  saint  neither  protected  himself  nor  was  rescued  by  his 
followers,  the  profane  hand  of  the  Moor  had  succeeded  in 
tearing  his  bones  from  their  place  and  scattering  his  dust 
to  the  four  winds  of  heaven.  Nothing  was  less  likely. 
When  such  a  rediscovery  entailed  but  a  mental  effort,  it 
was  not  to  be  imagined  that  the  Patron  of  Spain  would 
rest  unidentified. 

The  development  of  the  legend  and  its  far-reaching 
influence  was  soon  felt.  Prosperity  increased  and  brought 
with  it  its  usual  dangers.  The  rich  gifts  which  found 
their  way  to  the  new  centre  of  religious  activity  were  soon 
the  objects  of  the  cupidity  of  those  through  whose  terri- 
tories they  passed  ;  but  above  others  the  gravest  annoy- 
ance was  felt  at  the  depredations  of  those  Moorish  pirates 
who  began  to  intercept  gift-laden  vessels  and  to  carry  their 
arms  ashore  and  into  the  very  churches  and  towns.  In 
these  forays  Christians  were  continually  carried  into  cap- 
tivity. Churches  were  looted  and  burned,  and  the  whole 


Coruna  to  Santiago  41 

population  stood  at  last  in  constant  fear  of  a  sudden  raid. 
In  the  twelfth  century  we  find  some  planned  resistance  to 
this  condition  of  things.  As  the  Gallegans  had  no  ships, 
or  at  best  were  poor  mariners,  it  was  decided  to  send  to 
Genoa  and  elsewhere,  and  skilful  artisans  were  obtained, 
who,  at  great  expense,  after  some  time  constructed  two 
ships,  with  which  the  Christians  set  forth  and  so  ably 
attacked  their  enemies  that  they  afterwards  dared  not 
show  themselves  except  in  force.* 

The  history  of  Compostela  from  this  point  would  fill 
volumes.  It  has  now  assumed  a  position  of  European 
interest.  It  has  grown  beyond 
the  condition  of  a  mere  town 
to  which  a  few  pilgrims  oc- 
casionally come.  The  Christ- 
ian world  has  responded  to 
the  presence  of  an  Apostle  in 
Galicia.  Dante  places  him  in 
paradise,  f  "  From  the  twelfth 
to  the  sixteenth  centuries," 
says  Burke,  ^  "  the  number  of 
visitors  to  Compostella  was 
enormous.  The  roads  of 
Christendom  were  thronged 
with  its  pilgrims.  In  the 
single  year  1434  no  less  than 
2460  licenses  are  said  to  have  been  granted  to  pilgrims 
from  England  alone." 

Passing  this  long  period  we  come  to  the  year  1589. 
Spain  at  that  time  was  still  suffering  from  the  crushing 
humiliation  of  the  destruction  of  the  Invincible  Armada, 


MOSAIC  ™M 


*  Hist.  Comp.,  Lib.  II.,  Cap.,  xxi. 

\  Following  Rymer,  x.,  n. 


f  Paradise,  XXV.,  17. 


42  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

and  the  name  of  Drake  had  no  uncertain  sound  in  the  ears 
of  the  people.  When,  therefore,  word  came  that  the  "  ter- 
rible corsair  of  Isabel  of  England'"  was  about  to  ravage 
Galicia,  and  that  his  force  had  already  landed  and  was 
creating  havoc  in  the  city  of  Corufia,  almost  within  their 
doors,  a  thrill  of  horror  not  equalled  since  the  days  of 
Almanzor  swept  over  Santiago. 

The  name  of  Drake  was  at  that  time  hated  in  Spain 
as  no  other.  The  career  of  this  "  desperate  "  Englishman, 
from  the  expedition  against  Porto  Bello,  through  all  the 
subsequent  list  of  his  expeditions,  was  well  known  and 
greatly  magnified  by  the  accounts  given.  The  indomita- 
ble courage  and  fierceness  with  which  he  made  his  unex- 
pected attacks,  his  reputed  eagerness  for  gold,  in  which 
he  was  said  to  far  outdo  the  Spaniard  himself,  his  con- 
tempt for  the  altars  of  the  church,  combined  to  make  him 
feared  and  execrated,  and  it  was  not  for  a  moment  imag- 
ined that,  having  gone  thus  far,  he  would  resist  the  temp- 
tation which  the  rich  spoil  of  the  most  famous  shrine  in 
western  Europe  afforded  him. 

A  hurried  conference  was  therefore  held  in  Santiago 
as  to  what  must  be  done  to  protect  the  holy  of  holies  from 
the  sacrilegious  hands  of  this  freebooter  and  his  lawless 
followers.  It  was  soon  decided  to  transport  the  relics  to 
a  place  of  safety.  A  certain  number  were  taken  to  Orense  ; 
but  what  was  to  be  done  in  regard  to  the  bodies  of  the 
saint  and  his  disciples.  One  account  gives  us  the  words  of 
the  Archbishop,  Don  Juan  de  San  Clemente,  who.  on  at- 
tempting to  break  through  the  wall,  was  met  by  a  blast  of 
air  and  a  strange  light,  and  was  forced  to  desist :  "Let  us 
leave  it  to  tJie  Santo  Apostol  to  defend  himself  and  us." 

The  recent  discovery  of  a  hurriedly  constructed  burial- 
place  and  a  number  of  bones  in  an  excavation  made  in 


Coruna  to  Santiago 


43 


the  Cathedral  gives  evidence  for  the  belief  that  the  con- 
tents of  the  subterranean  church  were  taken  up  and  re- 
buried  as  a  precaution  at  this  time,  and  that  the  position, 
kept  carefully  a  secret  by  the  few  who  knew  it,  was  finally 
forgotten.  It  was  in  1879  tnat  tne  discovery  of  the  relics 
was  made.  The  search  had  been  undertaken  to  discover 
the  remains  of  Santiago  if  possible,  and  at  the  desire  of 
the  Archbishop  of  Compostela  the  final  examination  was 
placed  in  the  hands  of  a  number  of  scientific  men,  to  whom 
the  prelate  writes,  "  well  assured,"  he  says,  "  of  their  acr ed- 
it ada  religiosidad" 


WHERE  THE   RELICS  WERE    FOUND 


The  wish  of  the  Archbishop  was  to  learn  how  many 
skeletons  were  in  this  tomb,  their  age,  and  whether  there 
was  anything  about  them  to  indicate  a  doubt  that  theirs 
were  the  bones  sought.  The  commission  was  conducted 
to  the  spot  (in  the  apse  of  the  Cathedral),  where  they 
found  the  pavement  already  removed,  disclosing  in  the 


44  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

centre  of  the  space  a  roughly  cemented  box  or  tomb  of 
irregular  stones  and  mortar.  The  interior  of  this  tomb 
was  found  to  measure  99  by  33  centimetres,  and  to  have  a 
depth  of  30  centimetres. 

The  tomb  contained  a  promiscuous  collection  of  bones, 
mingled  with  loose  earth,  and  the  upper  stratum  seemed 
the  least  affected  by  the  action  of  time  and  dampness. 
The  fragments  were  so  fragile  that  it  was  with  great  diffi- 
culty they  were  sorted  and  classified.  They  were  after- 
wards placed  in  alcohol  to  give  them  consistency. 

The  result  of  the  investigation  was  the  classification  of 
portions  of  three  skeletons,  of  uncertain  age,  but  which, 
judged  by  a  chemical  analysis  of  fragments  of  the  bone, 
and  comparison  with  a  Celtic  skeleton  reported  by  Gir- 
ardin,  might  well  be  centuries  old.  Nothing  was  there- 
fore found  to  prove  that  these  were  not  the  bones  of 
Santiago  and  his  two  disciples. 

Half  of  one  Sunday  we  devoted  to  returning  by  car- 
riage to  Coruna.  The  idea  that  the  long  stage  journey 
would  be  improved  upon  by  this  method  was,  however,  a 
false  one.  We  started  at  fifteen  minutes  past  four  A.M., 
and  drove  the  first  miles  through  fog,  rain  and  darkness. 
Then  it  cleared  and  we  had  all  the  benefit  of  the  dust  in 
our  low  vehicle.  Eight  hours  of  this  was  dispiriting. 
Our  horse  was  flogged  within  an  inch  of  his  life  by  a 
merciless  driver  and  kept  up  by  two  portions,  at  intervals 
of  two  hours,  of  corn  bread  dipped  in  wine.  We  watched 
this  process  of  partial  inebriation  with  all  the  interest  pos- 
sible under  the  circumstances.  The  horse  seemed  to  be 
well  inured  to  the  diet,  for  his  pace,  though  not  quickened, 
was  ever  steady ! 

Peasants  in  their  Sunday  best  gave  us  "  buenos  dias" 


Coruna  to  Santiago 


45 


as  we  passed  by,  but  there  was  no  spirit  left  for  a  reply. 
We  only  nodded  gloomily.  At  last,  however,  we  reached 
the  long  down-grade  to  Coruna  and  could  see  from  far  off 
the  English  ships  at  anchor  in  the  bay.  At  high  noon  we 
halted  before  the  hotel. 


CORUNA 


IV 
ASTORGA— OVIEDO 

OF  the  unbeaten  ways  of  the  north  there  are  few  of 
which  you  will  hear  less  than  that  which  leads,  by 
way  of  Coruna,  Lugo  and  Astorga,  to  Leon.  Astorga  is 
one  of  the  many  places  one  slips  by  and  never  misses. 
One  is  in  no  fear  of  being  stirred  to  regret  later  by  hear- 
ing some  casual  visitor's  stereotyped  admiration  of  a  great 
cathedral  or  a  famous  fortress  or  a  marvellous  picture, 
though  of  a  great  retablo  perhaps  we  might  be  told  with 
justice,  for  here  is  the  best  work  of  Jaspar  Becerra, 
thought  to  have  been  a  pupil  of  Michael  Angelo,  the  same 
Becerra  whose  famous  carving  of  the  Virgin  was  once, 
after  two  failures,  inspired  directly  by  the  Mother  of 
Christ  herself,  who  came  at  night  and  set  him  to  work 
upon  a  fire-log ! 

He  was  a  Southerner,  this  Becerra,  from  Jaen,  born  in 
1520,  and  went  early  to  Rome.  His  career  was  that  of  a 
painter,  sculptor  and  architect.  His  wife,  Dona  Paula 
Velazquez, was  from  his  own  land,  to  which  soon  after  his 
marriage  he  returned,  and  his  work  may  be  seen  in  Zara- 
goza  (a  small  bas-relief)  in  Madrid,  Granada,  Salamanca, 
Segovia  and  elsewhere.  He  died  in  Madrid  (1570)  one 
year  after  the  completion  of  the  retablo,  his  masterpiece,  in 
Astorga.  His  famous  image  of  the  Virgin  of  Solitude, 

46 


MARAQATOS 


Astorga — Oviedo 


49 


carved  from  a  charred  block,  has  disappeared  after  work- 
ing miracles  unnumbered  ;  perhaps,  as  has  been  suggested, 
it  returned  to  the  flames  once  more  beneath  the  camp- 
kettles  of  a  French  general. 

Astorga  t  o-d  a  y 
will  keep  the  travel- 
ler but  a  short  while. 
He  may  perhaps  find 
enough  of  interest 
for  him  to  pass  some 
time  in  an  exploring 
tour  of  the  walls  and, 
if  he  is  English  or 
American,  to  Moore's 
house.  The  French 
have  done  their  usual 
work  here  and  the 
ruins  are  but  partly 
interesting. 

And  yet,  about 
this  little  time-worn 
place  a  strange  thing 
has  happened.  At 
the  edge  of  the  great 
Leonese  plain  which 
here,  stretching  to 
the  Guadarramas  on 
the  south,  begins  to  be  walled  in  by  the  Cantriaban,  at  the 
foot  of  the  smaller  mountains  of  Leon,  live  the  remnants  of 
a  people  who  seem  to  have  in  some  way  lost  themselves 
during  the  successive  flux  and  reflux  of  Moorish  and  Christ- 
ian advance  and  retreat  and  to  have  been  cast  up  out  of 
that  sea  upon  this  shore,  here  to  preserve  strange,  half- 


nppnrf 


RETABLO  BY  BECERRA  IN  ASTORGA 


50  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

forgotten    and    half-modified    traditions    and    a   peculiar 

costume. 

Who  are  they  ?    From  what  great  stock  have  they  been 

lost  ?     Out  of  what  camp  of  Taric  or  Attila  have  they 
__s_i-E_  wandered  by  night   never 

to  return  ?  Speculation 
has  at  one  time  placed 
them  in  the  ranks  of  the 
Arabs,  at  another  found 
seemingly  positive  and 
conclusive  proof  of  their 

ASTORGA  ,,  j 

northern  descent. 

In  costume,  if  not  in  physique,  however,  the  Maraga- 
tos  suggest  the  East.  The  great  baggy  trousers  of  the 
men  are  very  Moorish  ;  their  love  of  jewelry,  of  gold  and 
silver  ornaments,  the  enormous  ear-rings  of  the  women, 
their  retirement,  their  clannishness,  their  sudden  ceasing 
from  their  peculiar  wedding-dances  at  the  entrance  of  a 
stranger,  seem  more  the  outgrowth  of  Semitic,  than  north- 
ern tendencies.  The  young  bride  among  these  people 
puts  off  her  wedding  garment  never  to  resume  it  until  the 
death  of  her  husband.  Their  lives  are  hard  ones,  in  the 
open  air  for  the  greater  part,  and  the  women  do  most  of 
the  severe  work. 

Wailing  across  their  open  fields  at  intervals  on  the  day 
of  a  wedding,  or  other  fiesta,  come  the  plaintive  notes  of 
the  gaita,  or  bagpipe,  and  their  calm,  serious  faces  seem  in 
harmony  with  its  mournful  sound. 

Leaving  our  bags  at  the  station  we  got  into  a  rickety 
cart  covered  with  a  frame-work  hood  of  reeds  and  dragged 
by  a  tired  mule,  and  by  careful  balancing  managed  to  keep 
our  seats.  The  first  hotel,  which  is  run  by  the  father  of 
the  American  agent  in  Coruna  (a  Spaniard),  did  not  strike 


Astorga — Oviedo  51 

our  fancy,  so  we  moved  across  the  street  to  another  and 
after  a  breakfast  of  tortilla  and  tea,  got  into  our  cart  again 
and  were  bounced  and  tossed  out  to  Muria,  one  of  the  little 
towns  of  the  Maragatos,  whom  we  had  come  to  see. 

It  was  an  interesting  drive.  The  country  is  bare  of 
trees  and  after  passing  out  beside  the  walls  and  under  the 
cathedral  with  its  figure  of  a  Maragat  standing  high  up 
against  the  sky,  we  turned  down  towards  the  valley  and 
plain  below.  After  passing  to  the  left  of  Mai  de  Vicja 
and  on  crossing  a  stream  before  entering  Muria,  we  came 
upon  a  curious  little  chapel  with  a  flaring  blue  arch  painted 
over  the  door.  The  town  was  deserted  but  we  drove  up 
the  main  street  and  found  the  house  of  the  cur  a,  whose 
housekeeper  (said  to  be  the  handsomest  woman  in  town), 
after  some  discussion  from  a  window  high  up  in  the  wall, 
at  last  agreed  to  come  down  and  talk  at  the  door. 
"  Strangers  ?"  she  asked,  "  and  where  from  ?  " 
We  replied  that  we  were  from  Lugo  ;  harmless  travel- 
lers on  a  voyage  of  discovery. 

"  Pues — and  what  is  there  for  you  to  see  here  ?  " 
Had  we  not  seen  her  face  ?  She  laughed  and  we 
gained  admission  to  the  church.  There  was  nothing 
worth  seeing  inside  although  our  driver  and  guide  were 
overwhelmed  with  its  splendor.  A  statue  of  San  Roque 
about  ten  inches  high  mounted  on  its  pedestal,  stood  on 
one  side  having  been  carried  about  the  town  in  procession 
on  the  previous  day.  Everyone  was  out  of  the  village 
down  at  the  threshing-floor  in  the  fields  where  now  and 
again  we  could  hear  bursts  of  song  and  the  grinding 
wheels  of  the  great  ox-carts.  The  ear-rings  of  the  women 
are  mostly  crescents,  again  suggesting  Moorish  influence. 
The  long,  hanging  ear-rings  of  the  Gallegans  one  does  not 
see  here.  Wooden  shoes — galochas  or  almadrenas — are 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


rare,  although  they  are  used,  in  bad  weather.  They  are 
common  in  Lugo. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  bring  your  wives  with  you  ?  "  asked  our 
driver  on  the  way  back  to  Astorga.  "  They  would  like  to 
see  Maragatos — there  are  no  other  Maragatos  in  Spain," 
and  he  drew  himself  up  proudly.  "  Have  we  not  here 
every  convenience  for  travelling  about  and  seeing?"  I 
had  been  twice  jolted  off  my  seat  to  the  floor  of  the  wagon. 
Before  we  reached  home,  he  had  offered  to  go  with  us  to 
the  end  of  the  world  if  we  would  take  him. 

On  our  return  to  the  city  a  climb  to  the  top  of  the 
cathedral  tower  well  repaid  us  with  a  view  over  the  wide 
desolate  expanse  of  country. 

In  the  city  of  Oviedo  there  is  preserved  a  chest  the 
fame  of  which  has  spread  over  the  whole  of  Spain  and  not 
a  little  of  the  catholic  world  outside.  It  ranks,  among  the 
religious-minded,  with  the  Pilar  of  the  Virgen  in  Zara- 
goza  and  the  Apostle's  tomb  at  Santiago.  It  is  a  holy 

of  holies. 

This  chest  has  a  his- 
tory dating  from  the 
/  time  of  the  early  Church 
in  Jerusalem.  Its  con- 
tents are  intimately  con- 
"'//,  nected  with  Christian 
tradition.  It  has  a  deep 
mystical  meaning  for 
the  believer  who  here 
finds  himself  confronted 
with  incontrovertible  testimony  of  the  Great  Truth.  As 
to  this  we  need  say  nothing.  It  will  be  enough  to  give 
a  mere  outline  of  the  discovery  and  history  of  this  remark- 


RELIEFS  ON  THE  CHEST 


Astorga — Oviedo  53 

able  chest  and  of  its  contents.  Its  story  has  been  written 
in  whole  or  in  part  by  various  of  the  well-known  Spanish 
historians  and  to  them  the  more  deeply  interested  may 
turn. 

The  box  is  about  six  by  three  and  a  half  feet  in  meas- 
urement, is  of  oak  and  covered  with  silver  plates  with 
bas-reliefs,  those  on  one  of  the  sides  representing  the  birth 
of  Christ,  the  adoration  of  the  shepherds  and  the  flight 
into  Egypt ;  on  the  other,  the  revolt  of  the  bad  angels,  the 
ascension  of  Christ  and  various  apostles.  The  entire  top 
is  devoted  to  the  crucifixion. 

The  thirteenth  day  of  March  of  each  succeeding  year 
witnesses  the  festival  in  celebration  of  the  transference  of 
this  famous  box  of  relics.  This  day  has  been  set  apart  in 
the  church  of  Oviedo  for  the  due  honoring  of  the  largest 
united  collection  of  great  Christian  remains  in  the  Penin- 
sula. Let  us  consider  the  historv  of  the  collection  : 

s 

According  to  the  Spanish  account  the  chest  was  con- 
structed in  Jerusalem  for  the  purpose  of  preserving  the 
more  precious  relics  of  the  Christians  there,  when,  in  614, 
the  Persians  entered  Syria  and  Palestine,  taking  the 
patriarch  Zacarias  and  many  Christians  prisoners,  together 
with  the  true  cross,  which  latter  was  returned  and  set  up  in 
its  old  place,  only  to  be  (in  637)  again  taken  by  the  Mo- 
hammedans and  placed  in  the  Mosque  of  Saint  Sofia  in 
Constantinople  !  The  Christians  then  fled,  bearing  with 
them  their  relics  and  remains,  and  the  sacred  chest,  it  is 
said,  was  brought  to  Cartagena  or  Sevilla  (authorities 
differ)  and  was  later  taken  to  Toledo  where  it  remained 
ninety-five  years. 

From  Toledo  the  revered  relics  found  their  way  to  the 
Asturias  and  to  the  mountain  known  as  Monte  Sacro, 
whence  they  were  brought  to  the  city  of  Oviedo.  In 


54  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

the  church  of  San  Salvador,  with  the  greatest  awe  and 
veneration,  the  chest  was  opened.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  that  the  opening  was  attended  apparently  with  some 
fatal  or  diabolic  meaning.  Until  the  time  of  Alfonso  VI. 
no  one  appears  to  have  dared  to  undertake  so  dreadful 
a  thing. 

Morales  tells  how,  in  his  own  time,  Don  Cristoval  de 
Rojas  y  Sandoval,  being  bishop  of  Oviedo,  made  up  his 
mind,  in  spite  of  the  sacred  warning,  to  open  it  at  all 
hazards.  Formal  and  solemn  preparations  were  made, 
but  at  the  moment  when  he  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  put 
the  key  in  the  lock,  he  was  suddenly  overcome  with  such  a 
tremendous  feeling  of  horror  and  fear  that  he  was  unable 
to  continue.  And  Morales  reports  that,  among  the  various 
sensations  which  he  experienced,  that  of  the  rising  on  end 
of  his  hair  was  not  the  least  fearful.  Examination  of  the 
chest,  it  appears,  took  place  in  the  time  of  Alfonso  VI.  at 
which  period  it  was  found  to  contain  many  small  boxes  of 
gold,  silver,  ivory  and  coral,  which  boxes  on  being  opened 
with  the  utmost  awe,  brought  to  light  the  following  remark- 
able objects,  each  relic  having  attached  to  it  its  name  : 

A  large  piece  of  the  holy  sheet  in  which  Christ  was 
enveloped  in  the  sepulchre. 

The  sudario  stained  with  His  blood,  which  relic  is  three 
times  every  year  exposed  to  public  view  with  the  utmost 
veneration  ;  on  Good  Friday,  at  the  festival  of  the  Eleva- 
tion of  the  Cross  on  the  i4th  of  September,  and  on  the 
morning  and  afternoon  of  the  day  of  St.  Matthew  the 
Apostle. 

A  large  portion  of  the  True  Cross. 

Eight  thorns  from  the  crown  worn  by  Christ. 

A  piece  of  the  reed  on  which  the  sponge  of  vinegar 
was  raised  to  Christ. 


Astorga — Oviedo 


55 


A  piece  of  His  tunic. 
A  fragment  of  His  tomb. 

A  piece  of  the  swaddling-cloth  in  which  He  was  wrapped 
in  the  manger. 


OVI EDO-CLOISTERS  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL 


A  piece  of  the  bread  of  the  Last  Supper. 

One  of  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  received  by  Judas. 

A  piece  of  the  roast  fish  which  Christ  ate  with  His 
disciples  after  His  resurrection. 

A  piece  of  the  honeycomb  eaten  at  that  time. 

Some  of  the  earth  on  which  His  feet  rested  when  He 
ascended  to  heaven. 


56  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

Of  the  earth  on  which  He  stood  when  He  raised 
Lazarus. 

A  fragment  from  the  tomb  of  Lazarus. 

A  piece  of  the  stone  with  which  Christ's  tomb  was 
closed. 

A  piece  of  the  olive  branch  which  He  bore  in  His  hand 
when  He  entered  Jerusalem  on  the  ass. 

One  of  the  three  images  of  Christ  crucified  which  Nico- 
demusmade  after  His  image. 

A  phial  containing  the  blood  and  water  which  had 
gushed  from  the  side  of  an  image  of  Christ  made  by  His 
followers,  when  the  Jews  set  it  up  as  a  mark  and  struck  it 
in  the  right  side  with  a  spear. 

Hair  of  the  Virgin. 

Pieces  of  the  garments  of  the  Virgin. 

Fragments  of  linen  made  moist  by  the  milk  of  the 
Mother  of  God. 

The  chasuble  given  by  the  Queen  of  Heaven  to  Saint 
Ildefonso,  Archbishop. 

The  forehead  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist. 

Hair  of  the  same  Saint. 

One  of  his  bones. 

Relics  of  the  twelve  Apostles  and  the  Prophets. 

A  large  piece  of  the  skin  of  Saint  Bartholomew,  the 
Apostle. 

The  right  sandal  of  Saint  Peter. 

Part  of  his  chain.* 

The  pouch  of  Saint  Peter. 

*  The  question  of  which  part  is  at  once  raised.  The  subject  is  a  very  confused  one 
and  the  stories  are  contradictory.  Four  chains  are  supposed  to  be  referred  to  else- 
where in  ecclesiastical  history  as  having  been  used  on  Saint  Peter  ;  two  in  Rome  and 
two  in  Jerusalem.  It  is  a  well-known  story  in  the  Church  that  two  of  these  united 
miraculously  to  form  a  long  one  which  is  now  in  the  church  of  St.  Peter  ad  Vincula 
in  Rome.  I  have  never  met  with  this  Spanish  fragment  elsewhere. 


Astorga — Oviedo  57 

That  of  his  brother,  Saint  Andrew. 

A  bone  of  the  hand  of  Saint  Stephen. 

Other  relics  of  Saint  Stephen. 

Relics  of  Laurence  and  Vincent,  of  Saints  Cosmas  and 
Damianus  and  others. 

The  clothes  of  Saint  Tirso  Martyr. 

Some  of  the  hair  with  which  Mary  Magdalen  wiped 
the  feet  of  Christ. 

Four  bones  of  the  head  of   Saint   Librada,  Virgin  and 
Martyr,  with  relics  of  many  other  holy  women. 

A  blade  from  the  wheel   on  which   the  virgin  Saint 
Catalina  was  martyred. 

A  part  of  the  rod  with  which  Moses  divided  the  waters 
of  the  Red  Sea. 

A  piece  of  the  stone  of  Mount  Sinai  on  which  Moses 
fasted. 

Some  of  the  manna  which  God  rained  upon  the  children 
of  Israel  in  the  desert. 

The  cloak  of  the  Prophet  Elias. 

The  bones  of  the  three  who  entered  the  fiery  furnace 
of  Babylon. 

At  this  point  the  writer  halts  as  though  for  a  long 
breath  and  says  naively :  "  and  besides  all  the  said  relics 
of  the  Holy  Prophets,  Martyrs,  Confessors  and  Virgins 
there  are  there  guarded 
many  more,  whose  number 
God  only  knows" 

He  is  however  by  no 
means  at  an  end.  There 
are  yet,  outside  of  the  sacred 

chest,  other  wonders  to  be  THE  CROSS  OF  THE  ANGELS 

told  of  in  detail  ;    a  marvel-  (FRONT)  (BACK) 

lous    cross    of    solid   gold,  made  in  that  very  church  by 


58  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

the  hands  of  the  angels  themselves  (which  shows  that  the 
angels  very  wisely  worked  in  the  peculiar  style  of  the 
time),  and  that  famous  other,  called  the  Cross  of  Victory, 
with  the  aid  of  which  Pelayo  defeated  the  Moors,  not  to 
mention  one  of  the  six  water-jars,  the  contents  of  which 
Christ  converted  into  wine.* 

The  bodies  of  the  Holy  Martyrs  Eulogius  and  Lu- 
crecia. 

That  of  Saint  Eulalia  of  Merida. 

That  of  Saint  Vincent  of  Zaragoza. 

That  of  Saint  Julian,  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

That  of  San  Serrano,  bishop. 

The  shoulder  blade  of  San  Pedro  Regalado. 

Two  bones  of  one  of  his  arms. 

The  cassock  in  which  the  body  of  Pius  V.  lay  shrouded 
for  three  hundred  years. 

The  pillow  on  which  his  head  rested  during  that  period. 

A  letter,  from  Saint  Teresa  of  Jesus,  in  her  own  hand- 
writing. 

The  completion  of  this  document  is  of  a  kind  not  un- 
familiar to  a  large  portion  of  the  world's  inhabitants  at 
the  present  time.  It  simply  promises,  with  Papal  au- 
thority, to  all  such  as,  moved  by  God,  shall  journey  to 
this  shrine,  the  remission  of  one  third  the  penalty  attached 
to  their  sins,  and  a  gain  of  one  thousand  and  four  years 
and  six  cuarentenas  (40  days)  of  indulgence. 

*  It  is  of  little  moment  perhaps  that  the  good  writer  here  in  reading  his  proof 
failed  to  notice  that/foVra  had  been  substituted  for  kidria,l\ie  former  meaning  a  hydra, 
the  latter  a  water-jar.  The  miracle  is  rendered  somewhat  bizarre  by  the  change. 


V 

PLASENCIA— YUSTE 

FROM  Madrid  to  Plasencia  is  never  an  inviting  expedi- 
tion, but  the  prospect  of  seeing  Yuste  was  quite 
enough  to  ease  somewhat  the  roughness  of  the  journey, 
though  it  could  not  drown  the  incessant  rattle  of  the 
ancient  timbers  of  our  railway  compartment.  Through 
a  continued  hail  of  cinders  we  had  long  vistas  of  bare, 
brown  fields.  Dust,  dirt,  fleas  and  fellow-passengers  added 
to  the  general  misery  until,  at  last,  we  arrived  at  the  station 
of  Plasencia.  The  station — only  the  station  !  To  the  town 
we  must  take  stage — six  or  seven  miles. 

More  dust  and  fleas  and  fellow-passengers  added  to  a 
weary  rocking  and  bumping  in  the  berlina,  the  right  side 
window  of  which  was  broken  and  had  been  mended  with 
brown  paper,  just  enough  to  keep  out  fresh  air,  and  let 
fine  gray  dust  sift  in.  But  we  were  resigned.  My  com- 
panion had  sunk  into  silence  and  we  sat  staring  out  at 
intervals  along  the  heaving,  dusty  mule-backs.  At  4.35, 
we  turned  a  bend  and  saw  the  town  lying  below  us.  As 
we  came  nearer,  the  walls  could  be  made  out  and  the 
whole  took  form  as  we  passed  the  Jerte  River. 

Then,  true  to  the  time-honored  custom  of  Spanish 
stage-drivers,  we  broke  into  a  gallop,  the  inevitable 
method  of  entering  a  city  after  a  long,  weary  journey. 

59 


60  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

To  be  sure  it  deceived  no  one.  No  person  believed  for 
a  moment  that  we  had  kept  that  merry  pace  through  the 
long  period  of  our  martyrdom.  No  one  dreamed  that 
the  mayoral  was  smoking  any  but  his  first  cigar  instead 
of  the  last  of  a  series  ;  no  one  who  saw  the  zagal  leaping 
to  the  ground  at  each  few  paces  to  goad  on  the  mules, 
pictured  him  thus  nimbly  careering  from  the  first.  All 
were  perfectly  aware  that  we  had  lagged  and  dragged  and 
bumped  and  choked,  and  gone  far  beyond  the  merest  joy 
of  profanity  on  those  miles  of  seething  dust. 

We  stopped,  got  slowly  down,  and  Athanasia  met  us. 
As  soon  as  we  saw  her  face  we  deserted  our  bags, 
and  chanced  their  following  us,  that  we  might  be  led  off 
at  once  by  her.  We  loved  her  from  the  very  first.  We 
knew  her  to  be  our  guardian  angel.  Through  narrow 
streets  we  went  under  her  protection,  and  into  the  Plaza 
Mayor,  surrounded  by  fruit  stalls  and  full  of  color  and 
odors,  some  strange,  others  friends  of  long  standing. 

Fruit,  fruit  everywhere,  but  we  could  not  stop.  Out 
of  the  Plaza  Mayor  at  the  end  by  the  Cafe,  to  the  right 
and  along  the  narrow  streets,  until  hot,  thirsty  and  grate- 
ful, we  passed  at  last  into  the  broad,  covered  court  of  the 
hotel  of  the  Romero  Brothers,  the  Fonda  del  Oeste. 

The  Fonda  del  Oeste  is  an  old  house  preserved  from 
antiquity,  to  be  devoted  to  the  purposes  of  an  hotel. 
Up-stairs  we  wandered  through  dark,  arched  passages  and 
at  last  found  our  small  rooms.  Our  host  we  discovered 
when  we  went  down,  seated  at  a  table  afar  off  and  we 
nodded  to  him  but  said  nothing.  We  saw  that  he  was  old 
and  had  taken  the  place  of  Spanish  age — silence  and  a 
corner.  By  and  by  his  wife,  the  real  host,  appeared.  Even 
she  had  reached  an  age  when  it  is  pleasanter  to  direct  than 
to  do.  The  real  heart  and  soul  of  the  whole  place,  we 


Plasencia — Yuste  61 

soon  saw,  was  our  guide  from  the  station — the  ever-pres- 
ent girl  of  all  work — Athanasia.  Industrious,  excited, 
wonderful  Athanasia.  Shall  I  ever  forget  her  !  Her  little 
india-rubber  body  went  bobbing  and  bounding  about 
unceasingly. 

An  ornamental  daughter  of  the  house,  in  black  and 
surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  dignity,  heightened  by  a 
veil  and  much  powder,  sat  in  a  central  position  of  the  hall 
and  noticed  us  with  some  degree  of  kind  condescension. 
We  did  not  presume  to  address  more  than  a  dozen  words 
to  her,  which  she  suffered  herself  to  hear  and  acknowl- 
edge with  monosyllables.  Later  she  even  smiled. 

Outside  we  had  discussions  with  the  fruit  women  for 
melons  and  peanuts.  A  handful  of  the  latter  sold  to  me 
opened  the  sluices  of  inquiry. 

"  What  do  you  call  them  ?"  she  said.      I  told  her. 

"  What  a  silly  language,"  she  laughed,  turning  her  fat 
body  half  around  towards  a  neighbor  and  kicking  a  hog 
which  was  rooting  among  her  onions  at  the  same  moment. 

"  The  hogs  bother  you  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes.  Customers  who  don't  pay  !  There  ! "  This 
was  an  accompaniment  to  a  kick  sent  home.  A  violent 
squeal  followed  and  he  trotted  off,  nose  and  tail  up,  to  his 
companions.  The  streets  were  full  of  these  animals,  and 
they  would  not  move  to  let  one  pass.  For  is  not  this 
province  the  home  of  the  Spanish  hog  ?  Here  he  is  fat- 
tened and  famous  ;  from  here  he  is  sent  out  in  the  various 
forms  by  which  he  is  best  known  after  death.  But  of  all 
is  he  fairest,  best  tasting  and  least  like  his  living  self  as 
"sweet  hams"  of  Estremadura. 

As  I  write  of  the  hogs  of  Estremadura  I  am  reminded 
of  the  satire  of  the  last  few  months  expressing  Spanish 
feeling  against  the  United  States  and  the  amusement  de- 


62  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spam 

rived  from  the  picturing  of  Uncle  Sam  and  the  hog. 
Scarcely  an  illustrated  paper  or  a  daily  but  has  had  its 
fling  at  so  broad  a  mark.  The  hog  has  been  represented 
as  the  chief  domesticated  animal  of  the  North  American 
people.  He  is  pictured  as  riding-horse,  beast  of  burden, 
household  pet,  guard,  friend  and  food.  It  is  said  that  he 
has  supplanted  the  eagle  on  our  currency,  and  that  "  the 
hog"  valued  at  one  hundred  pigs,  has  become  the  standard 
of  values. 

At  eight  we  dined  with  five  other  guests,  and,  while  still 
at  table,  the  muleteers,  whom  we  had  previously  bespoken, 
arrived.  They  were  a  good-looking  pair  with  great,  gleam- 
ing teeth,  shuffling  feet,  broad  smiles  and  the  dignity  of 
good  health.  Discussion  at  once  arose  and  every  one 
joined.  Were  we  to  pay  four  or  five  dollars  to  be  taken  to 
Yuste  ?  Two  mules  for  two  days,  a  man  and  thirty  miles. 
Five  dollars  !  Everybody  shouted  in  derision.  We  left 
it  to  our  neighbors  and  it  fell  to  four.  There,  however,  it 
stuck.  And  after  awhile,  to  ease  the  battle  spirit  which 
appeared  on  the  point  of  rising,  we  accepted  the  twenty 
per  cent  discount  and  set  time  and  details.  As  our  guides 
departed,  however,  the  landlady  suddenly  sprang  to  her 
feet.  Her  rasping  voice  rang  out : 

"  Oh,  what  a  set  of  fools  ! "  she  shouted.  '•  Four  dol- 
lars !  And  here  was  I  holding  up  three  fingers  all  the 
time.  The  thieves  ! "  At  intervals  after  that  she  would 
break  out  into  muttered  invectives  against  the  muleteers, 
with  upbraidings  at  our  childish  simplicity. 

We  were  the  last  at  table  and  received  from  each  de- 
parting one  a  "  que  aproveche  "  the  customary  formula  by 
which  one  wishes  well  to  one's  neighbor  and  to  his  diges- 
tion. And  later,  upstairs,  as  Athanasia  handed  each  his 
glass  of  water,  with  its  white  azucarillo  lying  in  the  saucer 


Plasencia — Yuste  63 

beside  it,  she  called  to  us  to  sleep  well,  her  voice  echoing 
along  the  turns  and  passage-ways  of  the  old  house. 

As  all  had  thought  three  too  early  a  time  for  the  start, 
we  had  agreed  to  four,  and  at  that  hour  we  heard  the 
noise  made  by  the  approaching  animals.  We  went  down 
and  found  the  great  doors — a  new  pair,  the  pride,  of  the 
owner  who  had  discarded  the  ancient  ones  as  not  suf- 
ficiently effective — slowly  giving  back  before  the  energetic 
pushes  of  Athanasia,  disclosing  dimly  outside  the  splendor 
of  our  two  beasts  with  their  muleteers. 

We  had  time  to  take  a  cup  of  smoking  tea  and,  as  dawn 
broke  dimly,  scrambled  up  on  the  backs  of  our  animals. 
Our  seats  were  not,  however,  of  a  kind  which  promised 
much  comfort  for  the  coming  miles.  They  were  the  ordi- 
nary albardas,  or  pack-saddles,  which  have  the  faculty  of 
straining  the  legs  apart  until  they  ache  beyond  endurance. 
The  novice  usually  clings,  I  have  noticed,  with  a  grim 
tenacity  to  the  first  position,  until  clinging  is  no  longer 
necessary  and  the  legs  have  assumed  an  icy  fixedness. 

We  made  our  way  very  slowly  along  the  narrow 
streets,  the  mules'  feet  slipping  now  and  then  over 
smooth,  worn  stones,  and  the  scarcely  distinguishable 
windows  staring  at  us  without  expression.  Grayness 
came  in  at  the  end  of  the  streets  as  the  faint  dawn  grew 
brighter,  and  we  left  the  town  and  went  down  the  hill  and 
across  the  bridge,  where  low  brush  fires  were  sending 
up  yellow  flames  to  right  and  left.  The  rays  of  the  sun 
shone  faintly  from  behind  the  mountain  and  the  valley 
was  filled  with  a  delicate  blue  haze.  The  wind  came  in 
little  puffs,  cool  and  refreshing,  and  brought  with  it  the 
early  morning  sounds. 

A  woman  in  a  red  bodice  and  yellow  skirt  seemed  to 
flare  suddenly  out  of  nowhere.  On  her  head  she  was 


64  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

balancing  a  basket  of  melons.  At  her  throat  she  wore  a 
crucifix  strung  on  a  black  velvet  ribbon  and  I  could  see 
the  little  gleaming  bit  of  silver  rise  and  fall  at  each  breath 
she  drew. 

"  God  be  with  you,"  she  said,  as  she  passed,  in  soft, 
serious  tones. 

Our  dog  appeared  at  this  moment.  He  had  found  an 
old  shoe  which  he  carried  in  his  mouth  and  worried  at 
intervals.  He  was  short,  heavy  and  muscular,  and  his 
bark  was  like  a  sharp  song  of  morning  triumph  echoing  in 
the  valley. 

Now  peasants  passed  us  often,  their  patient  little 
donkeys  buried  beneath  great  heaps  of  fruit  and  vegetables. 
The  road  was  impassable  for  wheeled  vehicles.  Our  ani- 
mals picked  their  way  among  the  rolling  stones,  now  and 
then  thrusting  us  against  the  branches  of  the  scrub-oaks 
which  grew  irregularly  between  the  great,  uneven  rocks. 
Only  at  long  intervals  was  there  a  bit  of  cleared  ground, 
a  patch  of  peppers  or  corn,  with  melons  trailing  along  the 
walls. 

After  a  short  halt  the  mules  tossed  their  heads,  rattling 
the  hobbling  chains  about  their  necks,  and  we  all  mounted 
again.  Our  guide  sent  a  long  volley  of  invective  in  the  di- 
rection of  a  dead  cow  at  which  a  dozen  great  red-necked  vul- 
tures were  feeding.  The  profanity  was,  however,  in  reality 
directed  at  our  slow  pace.  At  last,  in  the  far  distance,  we 
sighted,  between  the  oaks,  the  Piierto  in  the  mountains 
by  Pasaron,  through  which  we  must  go  to  Yuste. 

Across  a  little  sandy  pool  at  8.10.  The  stream  is 
called  the  Garganta  de  Garguera  and  there  is  a  bridge 
which  no  one  takes. 

At  last  we  reach  Tejeda.  The  main  room  of  the 
posada  has  a  brick  floor  and  bright,  whitewashed  walls. 


Plasencia — Yuste  65 

On  one  side  is  arranged  a  good  display  of  blue  and  white 
china,  sieves  of  punched  rawhide,  and  household  articles 
hung  on  nails.  All  is  refreshingly  clean  and  free  from 
evil  smells. 

As  we  sit  here  discussing  the  preliminaries  of  food 
and  the  possibility  of  a  halt,  the  mules  are  led  across  the 
room  and  into  the  cuadra,  or  stable,  a  black  depth  behind, 
where  are  dimly  visible  and  clearly  audible  hogs,  chick- 
ens, goats  and  other  formless  moving  masses,  too  deep  in 
the  gloom  for  recognition.  So  is  the  mediaeval  desire  to 
have  all  one's  worldly  goods  within  one's  walls  preserved 
in  these  little  places. 

The  landlady  is  a  pleasant,  toothless  old  soul,  in  a 
very  short  green-edged  dress,  and  bare  feet  tucked  into 
slippers.  She  and  a  man  wearing  a  purple  faja  and  leg- 
gings, on  whose  buttons  is  a  portrait  of  the  Pope,  inquire 
about  our  trip,  the  man  first  carefully  removing  (one  from 
under  each  arm)  two  dried  codfish.  There  is  much  loud 
talking.  In  the  cuadra  the  hogs  come  to  the  door  and 
grunt  ;  the  chickens  crow,  until  at  last  the  barefooted  land- 
lady takes  us  into  her  own  room,  drives  out  her  husband, 
who  has  the  palsy,  and  fries  us  some  eggs  in  oil.  We  sit 
down  with  our  muleteer,  who  first  pours  red  vinegar  over 
his  eggs  and  eats  them  between  huge  bites  of  cheese  ! 

It  was  about  ten  when  we  started  on,  and  we  were 
soon  out  of  sight  of  the  little  wayside  posada.  Partridges 
rose  several  times  before  us,  doves  flew  past  continually, 
and  once  we  lost  our  way,  but  soon  found  it  again. 

"  I  know  the  way  well  enough,"  said  my  guide,  "  though 
it 's  twenty-three  years  since  I  went  over  it.  Twenty- 
three  years  this  coming  March.  I  married  from  Pasaron 
and  I  used  to  come  often  enough,  then."  After  this  I  felt 
confident  of  him. 


66  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

The  square  tower  of  the  church  began  to  be  very  near. 
The  little  town  lies  in  a  break  in  the  hills.  We  struggled 
up  to  it  and  entered  the  middle  ages.  Dark,  over-hang- 
ing, narrow,  filthy  streets,  filled  with  vile  odors  ;  half-naked 
children  mingling  with  hogs,  chickens  and  goats  ;  women 
in  brilliant  colors,  with  bare  feet ;  hags  peering  from  grated 
windows  ;  and  now  and  then  a  sinister  face  at  a  half-open 
door.  Strange  cries,  the  tinkling  of  goat-bells,  barking  of 
dogs,  gruntings,  curses,  all  rising  about  us  in  a  wild 
pandemonium. 

We  had  to  force  our  way  through  it  all,  now  kicking 
the  sullen,  angry-eyed,  half-savage  dogs,  now  pushing  be- 
tween the  great,  gray  backs  of  the  monstrous  hogs.  At 
last  we  came  to  a  fountain,  at  the  head  of  the  muddy 
street,  over  which  was  written  a  warning  to  the  people 
not  to  defile  the  water  by  the  washing  of  utensils  therein. 

From  here  we  went  upward  along  a  street  lined  with 
huge  wine-jars,  the  amphora  vinarice  of  Rome,  and  a  lit- 
tle farther,  we  passed  the  oven  where  they  were  baked. 
Then  down  through  heavy  chestnut  groves  into  the  open 
country  once  more,  gaining  two  splendid  views,  between 
the  ridges,  of  the  low  plain  below,  with  the  Sierras  in  the 
blue  distance. 

At  a  quarter  to  twelve  we  passed  a  cross  by  the  road- 
side ;  an  assassination  had  occurred  there,  and  this  had 
been  set  up  to  mark  the  point  where  the  body  had  been 
found.  I  could  not  get  the  details  of  the  story.  The 
spot  recalled  Byron  aptly  enough  : 

"  And  here  and  there,  as  up  the  crag  you  spring, 
Mark  many  rude-carved  crosses  near  the  path  ; 
Yet  deem  not  these  devotion  s  offering — 
These  are  memorials  frail  of  murderous  wrath  ; 
for  wheresoever  the  shrieking  victim  hath 


66  A  in  Northern  Spain 

Th«  Lhe  church  began  to  be  very  near. 

>reak  in  the  hills.     We  struggled 

up  to  it  i he  middle  ages.     Dark,  over-hang- 

,  filled  with  vile  odors  ;  half-naked 
chickens  and  goats  ;  women 

in  brilli,  h  bare  feet ;  hags  peering  from  grated 

win.  nister  face  at  a  half-open 

.it-bells,  barking  of 
out   us   in    a  wild 


i  the 


Plasencia — Yuste  67 

Poured  forth  his  blood  beneath  the  assassin's  knife, 
Some  hand  erects  a  cross  of  mouldering  lath  ; 
And  grove  and  glen  with  thousand  such  are  rife, 
Throughout  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not  life" 

Ferns  began  to  cover  the  rough  country,  filling  the 
spaces  between  the  gray  rocks  and  coloring  the  whole 
landscape  curiously.  Half  an  hour  later  we  entered  the 
robledo  or  oak  forest  of  Jaraiz,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  had  passed  through  it.  At  the  edge  my  guide 
stopped  and  waited  for  me  to  come  up.  A  broad  valley 
opened  before  us  to  the  left. 

"  Do  you  see  that  patch  of  trees  over  there  across  the 
valley,  under  the  mountain  ?  "  he  said,  sweeping  his  hand 
out  in  that  direction. 

"Yes." 

"  It  is  Yuste." 

I  forced  my  animal  out  of  the  road  and  upon  a  knoll, 
for  a  better  view.  The  valley  lay  at  my  feet,  gray,  barren, 
forbidding.  No  forest  was  in  sight  save  that  from  which 
we  were  just  emerging,  and  the  little  clump  of  trees  afar 
off,  at  the  last  home  of  the  Emperor.  The  usual  silence 
reigned  ;  only  above  in  the  clear  air  a  vulture  wheeled 
suddenly  and  swept  back  into  the  forest  from  which  he 
had  come,  curious,  perhaps,  at  our  sudden  halt  in  a  place 
where  halting  had  for  him  but  one  significance. 

The  last  house  of  Charles  the  Emperor.  The  spot  with 
which  the  greatest  name  in  the  history  of  Spain  is  most  in- 
timately connected.  The  one  spot  on  earth  where  the  ar- 
biter of  the  lives  of  a  wonderful  generation  came  as  near  as 
it  is  possible  for  such  a  man  to  approach  the  lowest  of  his 
subjects.  An  old,  broken  man,  on  whose  mind  was  written 
the  map  of  Europe  and  who  had  lived  just  long  enough 
to  see  the  danger  signals  in  the  north  begin  to  shine. 


68 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


Low  lights  which,  under  his  successor,  were  to  flare  along 
the  whole  horizon  with  a  blaze  which  should  draw  out  of 

Spain  one  vast  stream  of  gold 
and  men,  poured  in  to  quench 
it,  and  leave  her  sapped  and 
exhausted  after  a  desperate 
fight  a  century  long. 

"  Are  you  through  look- 
ing ?"  asked  my  guide  at  last. 
We  passed  around  a  curve 
and  into  the  town  of  Jaraiz. 
The  sight  of  the  place  seemed 
to  awaken  in  the  mind  of  the 
muleteer  some  memories  of 
the  time  twenty-three  years 
past.  He  peered  here  and 
there  curiously  through  the 


YUSTE 


dirty  streets  and  at  doors  and  windows,  as  though  he 
were  living  over  some  familiar  scene.  At  last  he  stopped 
before  a  door  and  struck  it  several  heavy  blows.  For  a 
time  all  was  silent.  Then  a  window  opened  overhead  and 
a  woman's  face  appeared. 

"  Do  you  know  where  the  wife  of  Silo  lives  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  stood  gazing  after  us,  as  we 
moved  onward.  A  few  steps  farther  another  door  seemed 
to  strike  his  attention  ;  he  delivered  a  tremendous  blow 
upon  it.  A  man  came  out. 

"  Do  you  know  where  the  wife  of  Silo  lives  ?" 

"The  wife  of  Silo?" 

"  Yes." 

He  turned  and  raising  his  voice  shouted  down  the 
streets : 

"  Pepe  ! "     A  head  was  thrust  from  a  window  afar  off. 


Plasencia — Yuste  69 

"Who  is  the  wife  of  Silo?"  More  heads  came  to 
windows — lines  of  them  were  staring  at  us.  .  The  words 
were  repeated  over  and  over  again.  At  last,  far  down  the 
street,  an  old  woman  called  in  a  high  treble : 

"  It  is  Bitorina  Parejo  he  wants." 

"  Ah,  yes,  Bitorina  Parejo  ! "  said  a  dozen  voices. 

"  Bitorina  Parejo?"  repeated  the  man  who  had  called, 
"she  lives  there."  And  he  pointed  to  a  house. 

"  Let  us  go  there,"  said  the  muleteer,  "  she  is  my 
sister." 

Before  I  could  express  any  surprise  a  little  woman, 
past  middle  age,  had  let  us  in,  and  a  family  scene  ensued. 
The  two  had  not  met  in  fourteen  years ! 

I  remained  patiently  standing  on  one  side  holding  the 
cabestro  of  my  mule  until  the  Senora  Bitorina  deigned  to 
notice  me  and  listen  to  my  plaint  of  hunger  and  fatigue. 
Then  she  was  all  attention.  The  small,  nervous  creature 
flew  from  her  newly  found  brother  to  me  like  a  highly 
excited  little  hen. 

"  What  will  the  Sefior  have  to  eat  ?  "  She  had  said  it 
three  times  before  I  could  answer. 

"  What  may  we  have  ?" 

"  Oh,  anything — there  is  everything  here  !  " 

I  told  her  I  would  take  what  she  brought  me,  and 
gave  my  mule  into  the  hands  of  her  brother.  We  went 
up-stairs  to  the  combined  dining  and  bed-room  which  was 
just  over  the  stable. 

"  It  is  warmer  so,"  said  Bitorina,  in  answer  to  my 
questions.  "In  winter  it  is  good  to  have  the  beasts  so 
close." 

The  apartment  had  two  small  alcoves  filling  one  side. 
Adjoining  it  was  the  taberna,  a  longer  and  narrower  room, 
the  public  drinking-place,  run  by  the  little  woman. 


70  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

At  intervals  men  kept  coming  in  and  going  to  one  of  the 
alcoves.  I  inquired  of  the  Senora  Parejo  if  some  one  was  ill. 

"  Ah,  yes,  he  will  die,  we  think,"  she  replied  in  a  cheer- 
ful voice.  "  The  doctor  said  so,  and  the  fever  is  on  him 
now  these  eight  days." 

I  went  over  and  looked  in.  The  air  was  close  and 
heavy,  and  by  the  half-light  from  the  candle  I  could  just 
see  the  outlines  of  the  emaciated  figure  of  a  man.  His 
face  was  hidden,  but  a  thin  hand  and  arm  hung  over  the 
bedside.  A  man,  a  sympathetic  friend,  no  doubt,  was 
talking  to  him  in  a  low  voice.  I  wondered  how  long, 
between  friends  and  fever,  he  could  last. 

The  other  alcove  bed,  I  saw,  was  vacant.  I  was  tired, 
for  the  albarda  had  worn  me  nearly  out,  though  I  had 
changed  my  position  continually. 

Nothing  could  have  seemed  more  tempting  than  the 
cool  white  of  the  bed  after  the  laborious  trip,  and  without 
a  word  to  the  Senora  Parejo,  I  threw  myself  at  full  length 
upon  it. 

Scarcely  had  I  done  so  when  a  shriek  arose,  and  the 
little  woman  flew  at  me  like  a  wild  creature.  She  seized 
and  dragged  me  off  the  bed  with  the  strength  of  two  men. 
I  was  too  dazed  to  resist,  but  retreated  before  her. 

"  Oh,  Dios  mio,  Dios  mio !  "  she  shrieked  ;  "they  are 
ruined — ruined  ! "  She  tore  back  the  cover  of  the  bed, 
and  to  my  amazement  disclosed  row  after  row  of — bis- 
cuits !  Small,  round  biscuits  !  They  had  been  placed  there 
to  rise.  To  rise  !  Down  the  centre  of  the  rows  my  weight 
had  flattened  them  beyond  recognition  ;  only  at  the  far- 
thest edge  had  a  few  escaped. 

I  apologized  as  best  I  could,  but  the  harm  was  done. 
Still,  the  Senora  Parejo  bore  no  malice,  and  five  minutes 
later  she  presented  me  with  a  sumptuous  repast  consisting 


Plasencia — Yuste  71 

of  thirteen  small  pickled  fish,  fine  white  bread,  goats'-milk 
cheese,  wine  or  water  unlimited,  and  the  half  of  a  water- 
melon, sandia,  in  the  disposing  of  which  my  hostess  joined 
me.  We  talked  on  amiably  for  some  time,  and  I  ques- 
tioned her  about  the  man  who  was  ill.  He  was  of  the  vil- 
lage and  unmarried.  The  doctor,  she  said,  was  a  most 
wonderful  man.  I  made  no  comment,  but  my  expression 
may  have  betrayed  a  doubt. 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  know — you  don't  know!  Why,  he 
has  cured  me  twice."  I  congratulated  her. 

"  Yes,  I  was  mad — quite  mad.  It  came  from  a  blow 
on  the  head.  See  here,  you  can  feel  it."  Sure  enough, 
when  I  put  my  finger  on  the  place  she  indicated,  I  felt  the 
spot  yield.  The  woman's  skull  had  been  fractured  ! 

"  How  long  ago  was  it  ? " 

"  Two  years." 

"  And  you  have  done  nothing  for  it  ?" 

"  Nothing !  Did  I  not  say  the  doctor  had  saved  me 
twice.  What  with  poultices  and  hot  bandages  and  the 
cutting  of  the  hair,  I  have  had  enough  done.  But,  some- 
times, even  now,  it  bothers  me  a  little,  and  I  have  had  a 
headache  these  three  weeks.  Though  not  when  I  wear 
this."  And  she  held  up  a  small  brass  image  of  the  Virgin. 

It  is  probable  that  this  woman  died  or,  perhaps,  be- 
came insane.  The  operation  which  was  evidently  needed 
for  relieving  the  pressure  on  the  brain  had,  doubtless, 
never  occurred  to  her  doctor,  or  if  it  had  he  was  evidently 
afraid  to  risk  trephining.  The  treatment  she  had  received 
told  its  own  tale. 

We  left  town  followed  by  children  and  descended  into 
the  valley,  where,  after  a  good  deal  of  bad  road,  we  crossed 
a  stone  bridge  and  began  to  climb  the  low  central  ridge 
which  divides  it. 


72  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

"  You  should  have  turned  to  the  left  a  good  way  back," 
said  a  boy  who  was  eating  figs  by  the  roadside,  in  answer 

to  our  question.  "  But  go  on  now 
up  through  the  barranca,  and  then 
keep  to  the  right  by  the  cross." 

We  soon  discovered  the  barran- 
ca and  climbed  up  through  it.  The 
way  was  difficult,  nothing  more  than 
the  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent  which 
had  cut  deep  into  the  soil  between 
the  rocks,  leaving  great  masses  of 
THE  CROSS  fantastically  worn  and  tottering  clay 

and  gravel,  ready  to    fall  at  the  slightest  jar. 

This  passed,  we  found  ourselves  on  a  long  slope  stretch- 
ing down  to  the  edge  of  the  woods  of  Yuste,  which  we 
reached  and  skirted  at  a  stumbling  gait,  making  a  long 
swing  to  the  left.  Then  we  found  the  cross,  and,  after  it, 
the  entrance. 

At  the  latter,  after  a  refreshing  ride  through  the  cool 
woods,  we  came  upon  a  group  of  women  washing  under  the 
great  walnut-tree,  where  the  Emperor  used  to  pass  when  he 
came  down  from  the  square  brick  building  above,  by  the 
inclined  pathway  on  massive  arches. 

The  present  owner  of  Yuste  is  the  Marquis  of  Mirabel, 
who  keeps  an  overseer  on  the  grounds.  I  followed  the 
latter  carefully  over  the  place,  through  desolate  halls  and 
bare,  dark  rooms.  By  a  low  door  we  entered  the  Chapel 
—bare  and  chilling  like  the  rest.  A  stray  beam  of  sun- 
light fell  on  the  floor  near  a  line  of  graves,  at  the  foot  of  a 
raised  tiled  portico  where  stood  the  altar.  Opposite  the 
low  door  beneath  which  the  Emperor's  head  had  so  often 
bowed  in  passing,  in  a  niche  to  the  left  and  perhaps  fifteen 
feet  above  the  blue-tiled  altar  base,  may  still  be  seen  the 


Plasencia — Yuste 


73 


coffin  in  which  the  body  lay  while  at  Yuste.     There  is  an 
inscription  below  : 

Within  this  box  of  chestnut 
wood  was  deposited,  during 

the  four  years  that 
it  remained  in  this  con- 
vent, the  body  of  our  Lord 
the  Emperor  and  King  Charles 

the  First  of  Spain  and 
fifth  of  Germany,  of  un- 
dying memory. 

The  sunbeam  faded  away  while  I  read,  and  we  left  the 
dreary  chapel  and  continued  our  walk. 

Outside  it  was  little  less  dreary.  Among  the  grapes 
and  fig  trees  the  hogs  were  hard  at  work,  and  a  calf  started 
up  from  one  of  the 
crumbling  arches  of 
what  had  once  been 
the  favorite  walk  of 
Charles.  The  path  is 
still  clearly  marked, 
but  time  will  finish 
what  it  has  begun. 


At  its  end  lies  the 
open  forest.  I  turned 
back  and  found  the 
famous  "fish-pond,"  now  almost  dry.  Ripe  oranges  hung 
over  the  wall  and  a  few  of  the  golden  balls  had  fallen  in- 
to the  green  stagnant  pool  and  were  floating  there,  flam- 
ingly  suggestive  of  decay.  I  tried  one,  but,  as  was  fitting, 
it  was  bitter. 

The  history  of  Yuste  and  of  its  royal  tenant  has  been 
written  and  need  not  be  retold.     Spain  cannot  take  much 


RUINS  OF  YUSTE 


74  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

care  of  her  monuments  ;  a  nation  so  filled  with  them  could 
hardly  be  expected  to,  perhaps.  They  are,  for  the  most 
part,  slowly  creeping  back  to  the  elements  again,  and  each 
traveller,  no  doubt,  will  have  less  and  less  to  tell. 

How  the  water,  down  at  the  entrance,  gushes  out  un- 
der the  great  nogal  and  rushes  away  with  a  sound  that  is  a 
quick  stimulant  after  dust  and  hard  riding  !  The  brook  is 
divided,  one  stream  for  the  washer-women,  the  other  for 
the  garden  of  cactus,  fig,  eucalyptus  and  palm.  One  last 
look  I  took  up  through  the  great  branches  and  wilderness 
of  leaves,  then  mounted  my  mule,  and  we  started  once 
more  for  Jaraiz. 

Town  was  reached  just  as  the  hogs  were  coming  home 
and  we  all  went  in  together !  The  fact  seemed  to  strike 
my  guide. 

"  They  all  know  their  place,"  he  said ;  "  they  will  go 
straight  to  their  own  doors." 

I  did  not  see  any  when  we  reached  the  streets,  and 
certainly  every  door  was  wide  open  for  them,  and  in  the 
cuadra  of  the  Senora  Parejo  was  much  grunting,  as  we 
entered. 

"  How  do  you  like  Yuste  ?  "  asked  a  man  in  the  public 
room,  upstairs,  and  I  told  him  some  of  my  impressions  as 
nearly  as  might  be. 

"And  do  you  go  all  over  the  country  like  this  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Riding  a  mule  like  that — for  nothing  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  that  would  n't  pay  imposts  for  us,"  said  my 
questioner. 

"  Nor  make  biscuits,"  said  another,  looking  over  at  the 
Senora  Parejo,  who  was  standing  by  the  door.  Several 
laughed  out  at  this  but  were  restrained  by  a  nod  towards 


Plasencia — Yuste  75 

the  other  room  from  a  heavy  grave  man  with  a  beard. 
The  man  with  the  fever  was  dying. 

They  questioned  me  about  the  Emperor  and  about 
Philip,  in  a  vague  way.  I  was  speaking  of  Juana  when 
the  grave  man  said  suddenly  : 

"  And  Dona  Carmen  !     What  a  woman  she  was  !  " 

"  Dona  Carmen  ?  "  My  surprise  evidently  struck  all  as 
peculiar. 

"  Yes,  she  who  changed  clothes  with  her  lover,  Alfonso, 
so  that  he  might  escape.  You  do  no  know  it  ?  " 

I  confessed  that  I  had  never  heard  of  it  before. 

"  I  have  the  novel  of  Philip  the  Second,"  said  the 
grave  man,  with  dignified  contempt.  Then  he  rose  and 
left  us.  I  had  lost  caste,  I  saw  ! 

A  hump-backed  boy  sat  under  the  greasy  lamp.  As 
he  rose  to  go  he  came  over  and  said  to  me  : 

"  I  know  you  were  talking  about  history.  A  novel  is 
not  history.  We  have  few  books  here,  but  there  are 
some"  His  eyes  flashed.  Was  I  talking  to  a  youthful 
Zorilla,  a  Lope  of  Jaraiz  ?  who  knows ! 

I  went  to  bed  as  quietly  as  possible — in  the  bed  of  my 
former  discomfiture,  now  ready  to  do  duty  in  the  accepted 
way.  The  dying  man  next  me  was  breathing  hard  and  I 
could  hear  clearly.  The  doctor  had  ordered  everything 
closed  and  not  a  breath  of  air  came  in.  At  first  I  was  at- 
tacked by  the  fleas,  but -after  a  while  they  grew  less  vi- 
cious. I  think  a  sereno  gave  his  long,  wailing  cry  about 
eleven.  Then  I  dropped  off  into  a  restless,  dreamful 
sleep  until  four ;  the  room  was  stifling  by  that  time  and  I 
got  up  and  crept  down-stairs.  As  I  passed  the  alcove 
where  the  dying  man  lay  I  could  see  another  man  asleep 
by  the  bed,  in  a  chair,  the  candle  throwing  a  yellow  light 
over  him.  His  hands  hung  down  and  his  mouth  was  gap- 


76  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

ing  wide  open ;  I  had  a  distinct  impression  that  his  mouth 
lacked  several  teeth.  His  head  had  fallen  forward  on  his 
chest,  and  his  faja  had  become  loosened  and  trailed  on 
the  floor  by  the  bed.  The  other's  face  I  could  not  see, 
but  they  had  said  he  would  not  live  through  the  night.  I 
thought  the  life  might  have  been  slipping  away  in  the 
stillness  as  I  crept  down  the  creaking  stair  and  sat  on  a 
stone  by  two  ponderous  grunting  hogs  for  an  hour. 

We  took  a  glass  of  water,  put  some  bread  in  our  pock- 
ets, and  started  at  five.  Our  return  was  uneventful.  Only 
once  we  lost  our  way  and  called  to  a  woman  at  the  door 
of  a  house  for  a  glass  of  water ;  she  in  turn  called  to  her 
husband  inside  : 

"  Juan,"  she  said,  "is  there  any  water?" 

"Water?"  came  back  a  distant  voice,  "who  wants 
water  ? " 

"  Two  strangers." 

"  Two  strangers  ! "  he  repeated  ;  then,  after  a  pause, 
"  No,  there  is  no  water."  We  rode  on.  That  night,  after 
a  thorough  soaking  in  a  sudden  rain,  we  passed  again 
between  the  newly  varnished  doors  of  the  hotel  in  Pla- 
sencia,  where  we  were  welcomed  by  the  amiable  hostess, 
received  a  dignified  nod  and  smile  from  her  daughter 
— still  sitting  where  we  had  left  her — and  were  over- 
whelmed by  the  irrepressible  Athanasia. 


VI 


MOZO  DE  CORDEL 


MADRID* 

All  about  the  Puerta  del  Sol  and  the 
streets  adjacent  the  coffee-toasters  take 
up  their  position  early  in  the  morning. 
One  is  aroused  by  the  rumble  of  their  ma- 
chines, and  the  odor  of  the  coffee  comes 
floating  in  through  the  open  window.  On 
the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  Gran  Cafe 
Colonial,  seated  on  a  black  bent-wood  chair 
which  he  has  just  pushed  out  before  him 
through  the  swinging  glass  door,  sits, 
slowly  turning  the  handle  of  the  tostador, 
a  man  wearing  a  dark  blue  boina,  gray  trou- 
sers, and  a  long,  dirty,  white  apron  tied 
in  at  the  waist  and  across  the  chest  with 
two  strings  passing  over  the  shoulders. 

From  the  sack  of  coffee,  lying  beside 
him  on  the  pavement,  he  takes  now  and 
then  a  grain  or  two  and,  as  his  body 
swings  backward  and  forward,  munches 
it  with  the  inexpressive,  passionless  face 
of  a  ruminating  animal.  He  wears  on  his 


*  The  portion  of  this  chapter  relating  to  the  Cid  Poem  was  published  in  "  The  Book- 
man "  for  September,  1896,  and  is  reprinted  -cuith  consent  of  the  editors. 


77 


;8  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

feet,  great  sabots  or  galoc/ias]  not  flat  ones  with  the  ordi- 
nary heel  and  upward  curving  toe,  but  with  two  ridges, 
one  at  the  toe  and  one  at  the  heel,  transversely,  which 
raise  the  whole  above  the  wet.  They  are  very  dirty,  and 
burned  here  and  there  with  black  marks  made  by  the 
sparks  which  have  fallen  from  the  charcoal  fire  beneath 
the  tostador. 

The  tostador  is  a  short,  thick  tube,  three  feet  high,  on 
four  iron  legs, — the  fire  inside,  at  the  bottom.  The  top,  or 
end  of  the  tube  is  completely  filled  with  a  hollow  sphere 
on  an  axis,  which  discloses  at  each  of  its  revolutions  a  small 
trap-door.  Inside  the  roasting  grains  toss  and  scratch  and 
grind  against  the  sides. 

A  lazy  mozo  de  cor  del,  or  porter,  wearing  a  green  cap 
drifts  up  and  lights  his  cigarette  at  the  fire,  saying  a  dozen 
words,  as  he  puffs,  to  the  seated  man.  His  trousers  are  of 
coarse,  dark  cloth,  and  red  stockings  show  through  the 

straps  of  his  alpargatas. 
As  he  talks  he  nods 
gravely  to  a  friend,  all 
in  blue,  who  is  seated  on 
the  slow-moving  hulk 
of  a  two-wheeled  cart 
loaded  with  thin  bricks 
and  drawn  by  a  yoke 
of  red  oxen.  The  ac- 
quaintance answers, 
reaching  out  at  the 
same  time  to  touch  one 
of  his  plodding  team  with  a  long  stick. 

The  coffee-toaster  sits,  swaying  backward  and  forward, 
at  intervals  speaking  a  word  to  the  small,  ragged  boy 
perched  on  an  empty  box,  marked  with  three  stencilled 


Madrid 


79 


crosses,  who  pushes  his  bare,  brown,  unwashed  toes  toward 
the  glow  of  the  fire,  which  it  is  his  function  to  stir.  A  fat 
old  woman,  her  head  bound  in  a  red  bandanna,  who  wears 
a  gray  dress  and  a  blue  apron,  holds  her  hands  folded  on 
her  stomach,  meditatively,  displaying  the  great  silver  rings 
on  the  middle  finger.  Between  that  finger  and  the  thumb 
is  a  small  bundle  of  lottery  tickets.  After  an  extended 
conversation  with  a  loiterer  on  the  corner  she  suddenly 
swoops  down  on  the  patient  grinder  of  coffee  and  tries  to 
dispose  of  her  wares  to  him.  But  he  shakes  his  head. 
At  long  intervals,  he  stops  his  eternal  grinding,  to  poke 
back  the  little  trap-door  in  the  ever-revolving  gray  ball,  and 
there  bursts  out  of  the  little  hole  a  bluish  smoke,  bearing 
rich  odor  of  burning  coffee,  which  rises  in  a  warm,  pene- 
trating cloud. 

Out  in  the  Puerto,  del  Sol  the  cars  are  leaving  at  long 
intervals,  going  slowly  past, — up  the  Calle  de  Alcald  or  in 
the  opposite  direction.  The  morning  sunlight  strikes  on 
the  net  of  wires 
that  enters  the 
cupola  of  the 
gray  building  on 
the  south  side  of 
the  square,  and 
a  few  men  are 
grouped  in  ear- 
nest conversa- 
tion at  the  centre 
— where  a  short 
time  ago,  as  trav- 
ellers will  recall, 
a  fountain  stood. 

Soldiers  wearing  green  gloves  go  by ;  street-sweepers 


SPANISH    SOLDIERS 


8o  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

with  great  brushes  and  broad,  gray  hats,  each  with  a  brass 
plate  upon  it ;  mozos  in  black  velvet  and  sandals.  Now  and 
then  the  coffee-toaster  shifts  the  gray  ball  over,  and  keeps 
it  turning  rapidly  in  a  skeleton  frame  outside,  while  he 
stabs  the  fire  with  an  iron  poker,  and  brings  up  an  angry, 
lurid,  sparkling  flame.  Sometimes  he  glances  behind  him 
in  through  the  glass  doors  of  the  Gran  Cafe  Colonial. 
The  front  of  the  building  is  brown,  in  imitation  of  wood, 
seemingly  fastened  on  by  huge  spikes,  the  gilded  heads  of 
which  only  are  left  conspicuous. 

To  the  right  and  left  of  the  doors  frowns  the  medallion 
head  of  a  brown,  visored  warrior,  while  its  two  windows, 
in  each  of  which  is  a  single  marble  table,  are  ornamented 
by  looped-up  yellow  curtains. 

At  last  he  finishes  prodding  the  fire.  The  red  coals 
are  dumped  upon  the  street  and  are  carefully  collected  in 
the  wooden  box  marked  with  the  stencilled  crosses,  while 
another  man,  just  come  from  the  cafe,  gathers  up  the 
toasted  grains  on  a  great  piece  of  sacking,  pours  them 
carefully  into  a  large  box,  and  then,  with  the  air  of  a  con- 
noisseur, raises  on  high  dipperful  after  dipperful,  letting 
it  run  back  in  a  rich,  brown  stream,  still  sending  out  its 
cloud  of  steam  and  delicious  odor.  Then  the  tostador  is 
left  alone  on  the  sidewalk  in  charge  of  four  small  boys, 
who  gesticulate  and  argue  for  some  minutes,  until  two  men 
come  out  and  take  it  in.  It  is  ten  minutes  past  eleven. 

Starting  at  the  Puerta  del  Sol  and  walking  up  the  Calle 
de  Alcald,  past  hotels,  banks,  clubs,  cafes  and  museum, 
you  will  already  have  taken,  at  one  swift  glance,  a  consid- 
erable object-lesson  in  the  manners,  language  and  dress 
of  the  modern  Spaniard. 

Jf,  on  coming  in  sight  of  the  upper  end  of  the  Salon 


Madrid 


81 


del  Pr  ado,  at  the  Ministry  of  War,  you  turn  past  the  im- 
posing fountain  to  the  left,  up  the  modern,  fashionable 
Pasco  de  Recoletos,  and  go  along  the  shaded  walk  until  you 
are  almost  opposite  the  new  National  Library,  you  will 
have  seen  the  outside  at  least  of  some  of  the  best  private 
houses  and  public  buildings.  And  if  you  turn  next  to  the 
left  one  block,  then  to  the  right,  you  will  pass,  somewhat 
back  from  the  street,  the  building  where  the  national,  or 
Basque,  game  of  ball  (pelota)  is  played  in  its  long,  high 
court.  Continue,  mount  the  steps  opposite,  enter  the 


COURT  FOR  PLAYING  PELOTA 


plaza  with  the  statue  in  the  centre,  cross  it  to  the  Calle 
General  Castanos,  and  stop  before  the  apartment-house 
which  is  number  seven,  and  you  will  be  very  near  the 
repository  of  the  most  remarkable  and  famous  of  Spanish 
literary  relics. 

On  the  third  floor  of  the  house  before  you,  the  sides 
of  which  project,  forming  a  double  row  of  bay-windows, 
lives  Don  Alejandro  Pidal,  former  member  from  Villavici- 


82  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

osa,  now  Speaker  of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  and  better 
known  as  the  possessor  of  the  unique  manuscript  of  The 
Poem  of  the  Cid  than  by  any  of  his  other  distinguished 
titles. 

It  is  indeed  a  rare  thing  to  seek  the  most  important 
literary  document  of  a  nation  in  the  house  of  a  private 
citizen,  and  to  the  properly  enthusiastic  there  is  a  slight 
quiver  of  fear  at  the  thought  of  the  possibilities  of  fire  or 
theft,  and  a  vague  wish  that  the  little  volume  had  some- 
how found  its  way  earlier  into  one  of  the  glass  cases  of  the 
long  library  building,  of  which  the  green  roof  may  be  seen 
from  these  upper  windows  just  across  the  square. 

Let  us  enter  the  open  door,  nod  to  \\\e  porter  o,  and 
mount  the  long  stairway  to  the  very  top,  passing  in  view 
of  the  little  circular  ventanillas,  through  which,  in  days  not 
long  gone  by,  we  should  have  had  to  whisper  "peaceful 
folk"  (gente- defaz)  before  the  unoiled  bolts  would  have 
been  drawn  to  admit  us. 

Now,  however,  we  merely  ring,  are  briefly  scrutinized, 
and  a  few  seconds  later  are  admitted  to  a  small  study,  and 
Don  Alejando  is  before  us. 

Senor  Alejandro  Pidal  y  Mon,  the  present  owner  of  the 
manuscript,  is  physically  above  the  average  Spaniard. 
He  is  tall,  heavily  built,  extremely  active,  and  a  rapid  and 
most  eloquent  talker,  whether  in  public  or  in  his  own 
library.  He  has  clear,  earnest  eyes  and  a  long  beard,  now 
turning  white,  which  gives  him  an  almost  patriarchal  ap- 
pearance. 

He  was  born  in  Madrid  on  August  26,  1846,  and  his 
father,  first  to  bear  the  title  of  Marquis  of  Pidal,  was 
Cavalier  of  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  Minister  of 
State,  historian,  orator,  journalist,  and  one  of  the  found- 
ers of  the  moderate  party. 


Madrid 


Such  was  the  man  who  rose  to  welcome  us  and  whose 
face  lighted  up  eagerly  at  first  mention  of  the  Cid  poem. 
"It  is  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  side  of  the  small  room, 
where,  against  the  wall,  was  suspended  an  elaborately 
carved  and  turreted  miniature  wooden  fortress,  remind- 
ing one  somewhat  of  the  gate  of  Santa  Maria  in  Burgos. 
Unlocking  the  doors  of  this,  Senor 
Pidal  disclosed  a  metal  box  through 
the  open  top  of  which  could  be  seen 
a  dark  object.  Taking  out  the  box 
and  opening  it,  he  handed  me  a  small, 
black-covered  volume. 

The  Poem  of  the  Cid  is,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  educated  Spaniard,  the 
grandest  of  epics — the  epic  of  Spain. 
It  is  the  expression  of  his  patriotic 
spirit ;  the  embodiment  of  his  mem- 
ories of  the  re-conquest ;  the  first 
child-speech  of  his  nation — of  a  na- 
tion whose  earliest  memory  is  of  eter-  CABINET  IN  WHICH  THE  POEM 
nal  war  and  of  unending  struggle  IS  KEPT 

toward  the  south,  from  which  it  had  been  driven.  The 
bearded  hero  of  the  poem  is  the  familiar  type — the  ideal 
type  of  a  Spaniard  rancio,  warrior  and  leader  of  a  faction. 

Much  has  been  written  of  it.  Sketches,  extracts,  par- 
tial translations,  rhymed  and  otherwise,  we  have  already 
had,  and  yet  the  popular  idea  of  the  Spanish  hero  and  his 
poem-history  seems  to  be  far  from  clear. 

If  we  suppose  that  somewhere  about  the  year  1 207  (five 
years  only  before  the  battle  of  Navas  de  Tolosa),  in  the 
month  of  May,  at  a  town  of  Castile,  a  certain  monk,  by 
name  Pedro,  wrote  or  copied  a  manuscript  which  was  in 
truth  a  strong,  rough  song,  wherein  the  especial  deeds  and 


84  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

death  of  this  national  hero  were  told,  we  have  (relieved  of 
scholarly  argument  and  doubt)  something  of  an  account 
of  the  document  which  has  brought  down  to  us  perhaps 
the  most  vivid  picture  in  Europe  of  a  mediaeval  warrior. 

From  that  day  of  1207,  until  a  more  certain  one  of 
1779,  or  from  the  moment  in  which  the  good  Pedro  laid 
down  his  pen,  as  he  tells  us,  in  the  month  of  May — and 
he  could  have  chosen  no  better  moment  in  all  the  Spanish 
year  to  push  his  writing  aside  and  take  a  holiday — until  a 
certain  scholar  Don  Tomas  Antonio  Sanchez,  did  the  same, 
is  572  years,  and  during  that  time  the  world  knew  very 
little  about  the  small  manuscript  which  had  been  waiting 
to  be  rediscovered  at  Bivar. 

Having  read  in  the  History  by  Prudencio  de  Sandoval 
of  certain  versos  bdrbaros y  notables,  which  were  at  Bivar, 
and  finding  in  Berganza  another  account  with  sixteen  of 
the  verses  themselves  reproduced,  the  learned  Sanchez 
declares  that  his  interest  was  awakened,  and  through  the 
assistance  of  Don  Eugenio  de  Llaguno  y  Amirola  he  was 
enabled  to  get  possession  of  the  document  long  enough  to 
read  and  copy  it.  The  result  of  this  reading  and  copying 
was  given  to  the  world  in  the  first  printed  edition  of  the 
poem. 

Probably  Sanchez  himself  no  more  than  half-guessed, 
when  he  first  turned  the  pages  of  the  little  parchment  vol- 
ume of  seventy-four  leaves,  how  important  a  find  he  had 
made  for  the  literature  of  his  land.  But  his  was  the  joy 
of  the  first  discoverer,  or,  better,  explorer ;  for  those  who 
preceded  him  gave  but  mere  hints  of  the  existence  of  an 
ancient  manuscript.  It  was  left  for  him  to  find  that  there 
was  an  account  which  so  closely  paralleled  history  that  it 
would  actually  be  a  point  in  dispute  whether  it  were  not 
the  very  source  of  that  history  itself ;  for  him  to  regret,  as 


Madrid  85 

others  have  regretted,  that  the  first  leaf  or  leaves  were 
missing  and  that  another  leaf  had  been  ruthlessly  clipped 
away  at  the  heart  of  the  text,  taking  with  it  fifty  lines  de- 
scribing the  interesting  adventure  of  the  two  coward  counts 
of  Carrion  ;  for  him  to  finally  wonder  and  worry  as  to  the 
author,  be  he  Per  Abbat,  as  the  last  lines  say,  or  some 
other  of  whose  work  Per  Abbat  was  the  mere  copyist  ; 
and,  last  of  all,  to  decide,  if  possible,  whether  there  had 
ever  been  a  capital  C  the  more  in  the  blurred  date  of  the 
blurred  last  page,  making  that  date  read  1345  (era)  instead 
of  1245. 

After  Sanchez  had  copied  and  printed  the  manuscript 
(in  his  Poetas  Castellanos  Anteriorcs  al  Siglo  XV.^),  we 
hear  no  more  of  it  until  after  the  wars,  when  it  suddenly 
reappeared  in  the  shop  of  a  bookseller,  and  was  brought 
to  the  notice  of  the  government.  As  the  latter  at  the 
time,  however,  could  not  make  the  purchase,  it  was  to 
Don  Jose  Pidal,  father  of  the  present  Don  Alejandro, 
that  Spain  owes  the  preservation  of  her  greatest  literary 
treasure. 

He,  to  prevent  its  going  to  England,  purchased  it,  and 
after  a  careful  study  published  some  general  notes  upon 
it  in  his  Estudios  Literarios,  under  the  title  of  Pocma, 
Cronica  y  Romancero  del  Cid.  Upon  the  death  of  Don 
Jose  the  manuscript  passed  by  inheritance  to  his  son,  who 
in  turn  began  a  long  series  of  critical  examinations  of  it 
from  various  standpoints,  resulting  in  a  mass  of  papers 
which  it  is  to  be  hoped  will  one  day  see  the  light,  though 
to  a  man  so  busy  with  political  questions  this  requires 
more  time  than  is  likely  to  be  often  at  his  disposal. 

During  the  period  when  the  manuscript  has  been  in 
the  hands  of  the  Pidals  it  has  been  reproduced  by  various 
persons.  In  1858,  M.  Damas  Hinard  printed  his  famous 


86  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

annotated,  critical  and  sympathetic  translation,  which 
would  hardly  have  been  superseded  were  it  not  for  the 
unfortunate  condition  of  the  text  (Sanchez)  upon  which 
he  relied. 

"  Damas  Hinard  never  saw  the  original,"  said  Senor 
Pidal,  and  he  read  me  a  letter  from  him  wherein  he  earn- 
estly requested  to  be  allowed  to  study  it  even  for  eight 
days  only.  This  was  naturally  refused,  as  it  would  have 
necessitated  the  sending  of  the  volume  out  of  Spain.  It 
was  no  doubt  a  serious  disappointment  for  the  enthusiastic 
Frenchman,  as  he  was  forced  to  leave  much  in  his  text  to 
speculation,  not  a  little  of  which  was  to  be  afterward  cor- 
rected by  others. 

It  may  be  mentioned  as  interesting  to  Americans  that 
though  the  manuscript  has  not  been  allowed  to  cross  the 
Pyrenees,  it  has  made  the  longer  journey  to  Boston  and 
was  there  for  some  time  in  the  possession  of  George  Tick- 
nor.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  latter  anywhere  men- 
tions this  fact,  but  Senor  Pidal  assures  me  of  its  truth. 

In  1842,  Ochoa  reprinted  Sanchez  in  Paris,  and  Flor- 
encio  Janer  corrected,  and,  together  with  Don  Pedro  Jose 
Pidal,  again  reprinted  the  first  edition  at  Madrid,  preserv- 
ing faithfully,  as  is  stated  in  the  notes,  the  orthography 
of  the  poem,  which  was  before  him.  This  Janer  did  in  a 
measure,  but  not  completely,  and  in  1879,  Karl  Vollmoller 
printed  at  Halle  his  Poetna  del  Cid,  "  nach  der  Einzigen  Ma- 
drider  Handschrift  mit  Einleitung,  Anmerkungen  und  Glos- 
sar  neu  herausgegeben"  of  which,  however,  the  text  only 
was  published.  Frere,  Ormsby  and  Southey  have  made 
translations  pretending  to  no  great  faithfulness,  though 
serving  the  purpose  of  presenting  the  story  at  least. 

The  manuscript  contains  seventy-four  leaves,  forming  in 
all  3735  lines,  counting  the  two  restored  at  the  end  by  Janer. 


Madrid  87 

Sanchez  had  either  failed  to  notice  these  at  all,  or  passed 
them  over  as  an  erasure.  Each  page  contains  about 
twenty-five  lines,  more  or  less,  and  measures  about  16  x  20 
centimetres.  The  writing  is  fairly  regular,  unlined,  and, 
at  places,  especially  on  the  last  page,  much  blurred  and 
stained.  The  number  of  lines  or  leaves  wanting  at  the 
beginning  it  is  impossible  to  tell  exactly.  The  one  miss- 
ing in  the  body  of  the  text  is  the 
forty-eighth,  and  would  correspond 
to  the  forty-third,  of  which  it 
formed  one  half.  The  present  bind- 
ing is  thought  to  be  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  Sefior  Pidal  called  my 
attention  to  what  he  believed  to  be 
traces  of  gilding  in  the  depressions 
of  the  stamping  on  the  sides,  which  HOUSE 
are  boards  covered  with  black  cord- 
ovan. At  the  edges  are  still  seen  the  remains  of  clasps 
secured  by  leather. 

Among  the  old  private  houses  of  a  city  like  Madrid, 
there  is  no  want  of  interest,  although  most  of  them  are 
sadly  changed  from  what  they  once  were.  But  the  travel- 
ler must,  during  some  part  of  his  stay  at  the  capital,  see 
that  well  known  old  building,  the  so-called  House  of  the 
Seven  Chimneys. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  how  great  in  Spain,  at  a 
certain  time,  was  the  expression  of  luxurious  innovation 
in  a  house  possessing  a  chimney.  "It  is  impossible  to  warm 
one  at  the  Kitchen-fire,  without  being  choked"  says  Madame 
Aulnoy,  ''''for  they  have  no  Chimneys  .  .  .  there  is  a 
hole  made  in  the  top  of  Ceiling  and  the  smoak goes  out  thence" 
When,  therefore,  the  number  of  these  signs  of  luxury  on  a 


88  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

particular  house  had  attained  to  the  cabalistic  and  mystical 
seven,  what  power  could  avert  the  christening  of  the  build- 
ing by  the  first  passer  :  The  House  of  the  Seven  Chimneys. 
The  House  of  the  Seven  Chimneys  has  a  familiar 
sound  for  American  readers  ;  but  there  is  little  about  the 
building  in  Madrid,  beyond  the  name,  to  suggest  the 
gabled  home  of  the  Pynchons.  It  is  simply  one  of 
those  ancient  buildings  of  which  European  cities  usually 
possess  one  or  more,  and  which  bring  down  with  them 
some  peculiar  history  and  the  suggestion  of  an  age 
departed. 

For  the  old  building,  which  every  Madrileno  knows, 
has  brought  out  of  the  back  country  of  Time  strange  tra- 
ditions, half-true,  half  the  outgrowth  of  idle  gossip  and 
superstition.  They  are  no  longer  told  on  the  corners  of 
the  streets  neighboring  the  mysterious  building  itself  by 
the  old  women,  nor  used  to  subdue  unruly  children.  Only 
curious  persons  remember  and  repeat  them  now,  and  they 
are  being  put  in  books  so  that  they  may  be  forgotten  with  a 
good  grace. 

The  general  outlines  of  the  old  landmark  have  changed 
somewhat.  Windows  have  pushed  their  way  to  the  light, 

doors  been  walled  up,  stucco  has 
overcrept  brick,  and  stone  been 
evolved  from  stucco,  and  garden 
walls  have  melted  before  advanc- 
ing streets.  But  on  the  whole, 
these  have  been  modifications  rath- 

HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  CHIMNEYS, 

XVIIITH  CENTURY  er  than  radical    changes,   and   the 

chimneys — the  title  to  a  name  distinctive — have  remained 
undisturbed. 

Ghosts  have  been  seen  to  flit  over  the  roof  of  this 
ancient  pile.  Strange  lights  have  moved  in  its  darkened 


Madrid  89 

and  empty  rooms,  as  the  belated  tell,  and  within  its  walls 
human  bones  have  been  unearthed.  Before  its  doors  Don 
Fernando  de  Contreras  was  killed.  Esquilache  and  Godoy 
have  peopled  it  with  memories,  and  at  night  not  a  few  citi- 
zens of  the  capital  of  Spain  have,  even  now,  been  known 
to  make  a  detour  in  passing  this  ghost-ridden  precinct. 

But  of  all  the  tales,  one  has  a  more  personal  interest 
than  the  others. 

When  Philip  II.  was  still  blind  to  the  character  of  his 
wily  secretary,  Antonio  Perez,  and  that  secretary's  word 
was  still  the  secret  means  of  making  and  unmaking  des- 
tinies, in  a  court  where  the  fortune-seekers  were  number- 
less, there  came  one  day  into  the  capital  a  certain  Don 
Juan  Arias  Maldonado  who,  suddenly  deprived  of  a  lucra- 
tive position,  sought  his  restoration  by  direct  appeal  to 
his  majesty  the  king. 

What  manner  of  man,  we  wonder,  was  this  Don  Juan 
Arias  Maldonado.  It  is  not  too  difficult  to  discern  even 
through  the  haze  of  that  confusing  period.  As  a  servant 
of  the  king  in  Peru  he  had,  no  doubt,  amassed  consider- 
able of  the  envy-breeding  things  of  this  world,  and  he 
possessed — dangerous  wealth  in  the  court  at  that  time — a 
wife  of  remarkable  beauty. 

He  was  a  proud,  vain  man,  weak  withal,  yet  with  the 
weakness  born  of  never  having  done  anything  with  his 
own  hands.  He  came  to  a  country  where  men  could  not 
shake  free  from  the  odor  of  their  class  and  where  the 
blood  of  kings  had  a  color  peculiar  to  itself. 

A  sanguine  man,  perhaps,  and  one  over-trusting  for 
the  possessor  of  so  fair  a  wife,  for  when  the  lady  Ana  had 
been  but  a  short  time  at  the  court  many  eyes  already 
turned  quickly  as  she  passed,  and  one  pair  at  least  with 
more  eagerness  than  was  fitting. 


90  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

Perhaps  it  was  in  the  crowded  streets  of  the  old  city, 
perhaps  along  the  shores  of  the  Manzanares  which  then, 
we  are  told,  was  no  sprawling  stream,  as  now,  where  only 
washer-women  beat  their  white  clothes  among  the  sand, 
but  a  beautiful,  partly  navigable  river  with  oak  trees  and 
gardens,  and  flowers  such  as  now  byrst  out  only  for  a  few 
short  weeks  in  spring  and  are  swallowed  up  in  one  com- 
mon, gray  grave  of  the  dust  and  heat  of  summer  ;  or  per- 
haps far  out  in  the  country,  among  the  groves  and  gardens 
where  now  the  Buen  Retire  or  the  Fuente  Castellano  is 
lined  with  tall,  and  imposing  modern  buildings ;  wherever 
it  was  the  great  banker  and  money  lender  saw  Dona  Ana 
once,  and  from  that  moment  followed  her. 

Baltasar  Catano,  one  of  those  flamencos  who  had  come 
with  Charles  to  Spain,  had  been  active  in  the  getting  of  a 
great  fortune.  One  of  the  class  of  money-gatherers  of 
a  time  when  the  accretion  of  money  required  talents  akin 
to  the  combined  abilities  of  the  politician  and  the  clever 
criminal,  he  was  perhaps  a  man  of  marked  ability  to  which 
had  been  added  a  touch  of  the  qualities  of  the  men  from 
whom  he  exacted  his  high  rates  and  clipped  his  profits,  so 
that  even  his  marriage  with  Catalina  Doria  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  deter  him  from  the  pursuits  of  a  new  vision 
of  loveliness  presented  to  him  in  Dona  Ana,  the  wife  of 
the  petitioner  to  the  king. 

Petitioner  to  the  king  !  They  may  have  been  the  very 
words  with  which  he  first  heard  the  two  strangers  described, 
or  perhaps  "  country  fellow,"  merely,  or  the  more  polite 
words  employed  to  say  fool  and  its  synonyms.  Certainly  not 
praise  would  be  bestowed  on  the  man  of  waning  fortunes. 

And  Catano  knew  how  to  deal  with  such  as  these, 
Or  better,  he  knew  well  enough  whose  hand  held  the 
power — and  its  price. 


Madrid 


91 


It  was  in  the  year  1577  that  the  two  arrived  at  Madrid. 
Twenty  years  since  the  great  Charles  had  breathed  his 
last  at  Yuste,  twenty-two  since  his  resignation  of  the  su- 
preme power  into  the  hands  of  Philip.  New  influences 
were  at  work,  and  the  chief  among  them  was  expressed 
by  the  presence  of  Antonio  Perez. 

As  in  Spain  at  that  time  there  was  always  not  one  but 
a  series  of  dependents,  so  in  the  case  of  the  great  Antonio 
there  was  a  second,  a  secretary's  secretary.  Don  Juan 
de  Ledesma  was  a  man  not  too  far  below  his  master  to 
be  incapable  of  a  sufficiently  far-seeing  treachery  and  will- 
ing policy  of  deceit,  or  the  opening  of  negotiations  upon 
almost  any  basis,  provided  the  signs  pointed  the  way  of 
profit  to  Ledesma. 

To  Ledesma,  then,  Don  Arias 
presented  his  case.  As  might  have 
been  expected,  the  wily  secretary 
considered  it  some  time,  reconsid- 
ered it  longer,  and  then  took  a 
still  greater  period  to  examine  it 
thoroughly  all  over  again.  Months 
slipped  away  and  daily  the  re- 
sources of  the  petitioners  grew 
more  limited. 

In  the  meantime,  however,  an 
unseen  agency  was  at  work.  The 
usurer  had  presented  his  suit  to 
Dona  Ana  and  had  been  repulsed. 
He  could  not  understand  it.  He 
had  renewed  it  only  to  meet  the  same  result.  Driven 
at  last  to  desperation  he  resolved  to  gain  the  aid  of  the 
secretary.  Ledesma  listened.  The  usual  arguments  were 
used  and  the  secretary  was  won. 


ANTONIO  PEREZ 


92  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

The  plan  was  very  simple.  Ledesma,  at  the  earliest 
opportunity,  was  to  have  a  serious  talk  with  his  petitioner 
and  to  advise  him  to  make  a  more  impressive  show  at  the 
court,  cost  what  it  might.  No  doubt,  the  arguments  used 
were  not  hard  to  prove  to  the  already  desperate  Don 
Arias.  He  was  no  longer  in  a  position  to  deliberate 
clearly.  He  could  find  nothing  so  fatal  to  contemplate  in 
the  future  as  the  ruin  which  was  already  staring  him  in  the 
face.  Whatever  doubts  he  may  have  had,  the  good  secre- 
tary could  clear  them  away  by  his  seeming  interest  and 
good-feeling.  He  would  help  him.  He  would  advance 
him  money  ;  he  would  even  sell  him  a  house.  Payment 
was  to  be  considered  afterwards.  Should  the  good  Don 
Arias  walk  to  court  when  others  rode  ?  No,  he  must  ride 
with  the  rest. 

The  good  Don  Arias  rode  with  the  rest.  We  next  see 
him  with  the  beautiful  Dona  Ana  living  gorgeously  in  the 
House  of  the  Seven  Chimneys — for  it  was  this  that  the 

accommodating  secretary  had  sold 
them  at  an  exorbitant  price.  The 
plan  was  furthered  to  its  utmost. 
All  manner  of  extravagance  was 
encouraged  and  urged  by  Ledesma, 
and  Don  Arias  was  soon  hopelessly 
HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  involved.  H  is  riding  was  short. 

CHIMNEYS  TO-DAY  .  •  r\ 

Ruin  was  upon  him.  One  month 

was  all  the  time  allowed  by  the  eager  lover  for  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  rival.  The  creditors  appeared.  All  was  taken 
and  the  two  were  upon  the  street. 

At  this  point  the  pursuer  secretly  purchased  the  House 
of  the  Seven  Chimneys  at  half  its  value,  intending  to  pre- 
sent it  as  a  further  temptation  to  Dona  Ana. 

But  the  wily  usurer  had  struck  deeper  than  he  knew. 


Madrid  93 

A  few  weeks  more  and  Don  Arias  Maldonado  was  no 
longer  a  danger  or  an  obstacle.  He  died  suddenly,  leav- 
ing Dona  Ana  penniless. 

And  so  the  usurer  was  successful  ? 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  he  was  not.  Dona  Ana  did 
not  fall  into  his  open  arms.  She  did  not  fly  with  him. 
There  was  still  one  retreat  left  and  to  it  she  turned.  The 
Church  opened  its  doors,  as  it  has  always  done,  and  she 
disappeared  from  sight  forever. 


VII 
THE  BULL-RING 

"  But  looked  at  coldly,  so  dull  is  life,  that  it  is  better  to  imitate  the 
Roman  Ccesars  and  quickly  spend  the  fleeting  human  force  than  bend  to  the 
laws  of  economy,  for  misers  or  spendthrifts  we  shall  end  as  all  that  lives  by 
plunging  at  last  into  the  waves  of  eternity." 

A  MODERN  SPANISH  WRITER  ON  BULLFIGHTING 

WHEN  color-photography  shall  have  been  developed 
and  we  may  sit  down  and  study  the  color  of  a 
Spanish  street  in  our  own  rooms  we  shall  be  little  better 
able,  I  fear,  to  gain  a  clear  impression  from  it,  than  we  do 
now  from  the  ordinary  photograph  which,  we  are  told, 
looks  so  like  what  we  have  seen.  It  is  hard  to  tell  why  it 
is  that  pictures  of  Spanish  scenes  are  so  unsatisfactory. 
Is  it  that  the  rapidity  of  change  is  so  great,  that  expression 
and  sound  and  smells  play  so  large  a  part  in  the  whole,  or 
that  the  impressions  are  so  fragmentary  and  little  general 
that  they  become  confused  and  lost  almost  as  soon  as 
received  ? 

It  is  difficult  to   describe  in  words  the  impression  pro- 
duced by  this  shifting,  impulsive,  now  sombre,   now  vivid, 
street  vitality  of  Madrid,  and  it  seems  that  on  the  day  of 
the  greatest  event  of  Spanish  sport — the  bullfight  day— 
this  nervous,  seething,  ill-at-ease  mass  of  life  finds  a  fitting 

94 


The  Bull-Ring 


95 


place  to  express  its  peculiar  temper  in  the  great  open  circle 
at  the  end  of  the  fashionable  drive,  where  law  and  justice 
lose  meaning,  and  the  impulse  to  kill  is  given  free  play. 

Walk  up  the  Alcald  on  this 
day.  Down  at  the  Puerto,  del 
•Sb/you  will  find  long  lines  of  car- 
riages and  stages  and  carts,  the 
mules  that  draw  them  decked 
with  bells  and  red  tassels.  A  lit- 
tle later  the  cabs  begin  to  stream 
up  the  broad  street,  the  mounted 
guardias  in  white  and  yellow  and 
red  stand  here  and  there,  peas- 
ants from  outside  the  city  walls 
fill  the  little  curtained  cars,  shout- 
ing boys,  sellers  of  programmes, 
and  now  and  then  through  the 
midst  of  it  all  dashes  an  open 
carriage  in  which  sit  four  men 
dressed  in  a  blaze  of  yellow  or 
green  or  gold — a  fierce  flash  of 
color,  passed  in  an  instant. 

And  so  on  up  the  long  street 
to  the  great  horseshoe-arched 
portal  of  the  Plaza  de  Toros,  high 
above  which,  on  the  pointed  fa- 
^ade,  floats  the  yellow  and  red 
banner  of  Spain. 

The  national  sport  of  Spain 
takes  undeniably  first  rank  of  all  others  in  the  matter  of 
pure  cruelty.  It  has  for  its  object  the  death,  by  slow  and 
deliberate  torture,  of  a  fixed  number  of  bulls  and  horses, 
and  the  performance  is  of  such  a  nature  that  it  must  needs 


MONA 


96 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


act  directly  upon  the  minds  and  impulses  of  the  audience 
for  evil.  It  is  impossible  that  the  feeling  of  mere  admira- 
tion at  the  dexterity  or  boldness  of  one  of  the  performers 
should  in  any  great  degree  raise  the  beholder  beyond  the 
influence  of  the  rest  of  a  tragedy  so  grim  in  its  details,  so 
unrelenting  in  its  accomplishment,  that  the  whole  scheme 
of  human  justice  appears  outraged.  I  am  quite  aware  in 
saying  this  that  there  are  those  who  are  at  some  pains  to 
defend  the  sport,  and  that  a  great  number  of  Spaniards, 
while  admitting  the  facts,  would  regret  to  think  of  the 
loss  of  the  corrida.  About  bullfighting  there  is  nothing  to 
argue.  You  must  accept  or  let  alone. 

And  yet  I  believe  that  nothing  in  all  Spain  so  thor- 
oughly deserves  close  attention  as  this  national  game.  It 
is  the  expression  of  modernized  traditions,  borrowed  from 

Romans  and  Moors,  and 
has  been  kept  alive  in  a 
nation  where  the  free- 
dom and  rights  of  the 
individual  were,  in  the 
early  days,  it  seemed, 
most  hard  to  overthrow. 
One's  seat  at  the  cor- 
rida is,  more  than  any 
other  place,  the  vantage 
ground  from  which  to 
view  Spanish  character. 
From  the  under  strata 
of  a  nation  the  upper  are 
made.  Here  one  has 
the  under  strata  stripped 
for  examination.  The 
cloak  of  custom  and  convention  is  flung  aside.  Actor  and 


A  BOX  AT      LOS  TOROS 


The  Bull-Ring  9? 


audience  are  playing  to  each  other.  Both  are  living  out 
the  tragedy,  and  if  one  can  forget  the  bloody  side  of  the 
drama  played  below,  one's  lesson  in  Spanish  is  worth  a 
thousand  times  more  than  the  clearest  insight  into  the  forms 
of  the  irregular  verb  or  the  uses  of  the  subjunctive.  The 
education  of  the  bull-ring  is  an  education  of  daring,  of 
recklessness,  of  utter  carelessness  of  life,  both  in  self  and 
in  others.  Such  men  as  the  Spaniard  Perez,  who  entered 
the  cage  of  an  enraged  lioness,  to  save  the  trainer  who 
had  been  struck  down,  are  among  its  dramatic  disciples  ; 
such  women  as  she  who,  when  a  tiger  escaped  in  the 
streets  of  Madrid  (Dec.,  1877),  stopped  with  her  child  to 
watch  the  creature  curiously  ;  such  children  as  those  who 
followed  the  same  beast  pelting  it  with  stones. 

The  origin  of  bullfighting  is  doubtful,  but  that  it  is 
the  natural  development  and  modification  of  the  Roman 
circus  there  can  be  little  question.  It  may  even  be,  as  has 
been  suggested,  one  of  those  curious  inversions  of  original 
custom,  so  common  in  history,  by  which  the  diversion  of 
slaughtering  human  victims  by  wild  beasts  has,  with  the 
growth  of  Christianity,  been  turned  to  the  pastime  of 
slaughtering  wild  beasts  by  men.  Is  there  not  still  hidden 
in  the  spectator's  heart  the  hope  of  that  more  exciting 
phase  of  the  sport,  wherein  the  modern  conditions  will 
once  more  be  reversed  and  the  wild  beast  again  be  master  ? 

If  so,  in  not  a  few  cases  has  the  wish  been  gratified. 
Pepe  Hillo,  Jose  Rodriguez,  Manuel  Jimenez  (el  Cand),  Can- 
dido,  Espartero  and  countless  others  have  paid  with  their 
lives  in  the  end,  and  there  will  no  doubt  still  be  added  many 
names  to  the  list.  Mutilation  is  an  everyday  occurrence. 
The  loss  of  an  eye,  as  with  Dominquez  (1857),  when  the  bull 
Barabas  caught  him  ;  of  a  leg,  as  with  el  Tato  (1869),  and  a 
score  of  others,  are  events  so  common  as  to  be  only  noted 


98  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

when  occurring  to  well-known  men.      Bones  are  continu- 

o 

ally  broken,  but  the  passion  for  the  sport  is  incredibly  in- 
tense and  is  on  the  increase  rather  than  diminishing. 

It  is  the  custom  of  Spanish  writers  to  name  the  Cid 
Campeador  as  the  first  bullfighter,  on  the  most  shadowy 
tradition.  There  is  probably  not  the  slightest  reason  to 
suppose  any  definite  form  had  been  given  to  the  sport  at 
that,  or  at  a  very  subsequent  period.  That  men  may 
have  amused  themselves  in  encounters  of  this  description 
may  not  be  questioned,  but  if  the  Cid  killed  a  bull  once, 
it  is  by  no  means  to  be  supposed  that  he  ever  did  so  again. 
Bullfighting  would  hardly  be  considered  a  profitable  way 
of  disporting  one's  self  at  a  time  when  every  faculty  was 
needed  to  prevent  a  successful  Moorish  raid. 

Pascual  Millan  discovered  recently  in  Roncesvalles  a 
record  of  a  corrida  celebrated  in  Navarre  by  Carlos  II.  in 
August,  1385.  It  reads  :  "  The  king  ordered  fifty  libras  to 
be  paid  to  two  men  of  Aragon,  one  Christian  and  the 
other  Moorish,  whom  we  had  caused  to  come  from  Zara- 
goza,  to  kill  two  bulls  in  our  presence,  in  our  city  of 
Pamplona."  Other  bullfights  took  place  in  1387  and 
1388,  proving,  as  Senor  Millan  says,  the  existence  of  pro- 
fessional matadors  in  Zaragoza  in  the  fourteenth  century. 

It  is  said  that  bulls  were  fought  in  Italy  about  1300 
and  after,  particularly  in  1332,  when  a  special  exhibition 
was  given  wherein  nineteen  Roman  gentlemen  and  many 
others  lost  their  lives. 

The  Spanish  comment  upon  this  event  is  characteristic  : 
"The  poor  Italians  thought  one  had  but  to  be  a  man  to 
do  as  other  men  ;  they  did  not  take  into  account  that  to 
play  with  bulls  it  is  necessary  to  have  them  born  in  Spain." 
Here  bullfighting  in  Italy  seems  to  have  come  to  an 
abrupt  termination.  It  was  promptly  prohibited  and  was 


The  Bull-Ring 


99 


not    reintroduced   until    brought   back   by  the    Spainards 
themselves  long  after. 

The  development  of  the  sport  in  the  Xlllthand  XlVth 
centuries  was  slow.  It  was  at  this  time  the  diversion  of 
the  nobility  and  was  invariably  a  performance  of  horse- 
manship as  well  as  dexterity  with  the  lance.  The  tradi- 
tions of  this  time 
have  been  pre- 
served to  us  to-day 
in  the  occasional 
appearance  in  the 
rino-  of  the  caballcro 

O 

de  Plaza  who, 
mounted  on  an  ex- 
cellent and  spirited 
horse,  despatches 
the  bull  by  the 
thrust  of  a  broad- 
headed  spear. 

An  explanation 
of  the  cause  of  the 
early  popularity 
of  the  corrida  is 
doubtless  the  fa- 
cility with  which 
the  bulls  could  be 
obtained.  Along 
the  low  lands  of 
the  south  the  ani- 
mals found  an  ex- 
cellent pasturage  CABALLERO  DE  PLAZA 
and  were,  although 
not  the  equals  of  the  bulls  of  Castile,  sufficiently  savage  by 


ioo  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

nature.  Spain  in  those  days  had  not  at  her  disposal  the 
resources  of  Rome.  She  could  not  draw  a  supply  of  wild 
beasts  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe.  Lions  and 
tigers  were  not  to  be  had  in  her  own  territory  and  to  send 
for  them  would  have  reduced  her  sport  to  a  precarious 
condition.  The  nation  itself  was  not  unified.  The  want 
of  cohesion  represented  a  corresponding  want  of  inter- 
course, and  the  transportation  of  a  single  lion  from  North 
Africa  to  Castile  would  have  represented  an  expenditure 
of  time  and  money  only  within  the  reach  of  kings.  But 
bulls  were  at  hand  and  were  cheap.  They  were  easily 
managed  ;  they  transported  themselves.  Afterwards  they 
could  be  used  as  food.  Economy  could  go  no  farther. 
The  sport  grew  and  developed. 

It  is  well  known  that  Isabella  the  Catholic  was  most 
prejudiced  against  bullfighting  from  the  first  and  that  she 
even  made  efforts  to  suppress  it.  Her  dislike  seems  na- 
tural to  a  Spanish  writer  on  the  subject.  The  ring  was  in 
an  undeveloped  condition.  It  was  crowded  with  unskil- 
ful horsemen,  and  a  place  of  confusion.  "  If  in  place  of 
such  disorder,"  says  the  writer  in  question,  "  she  had  seen 
a  real  corrida  de  toros,  or  at  least  such  as  during  the  past 
hundred  years  have  been  celebrated  in  Madrid,  she  would 
have  spoken  quite  differently." 

It  is  not  doubtful  that  the  Catholic  queen  was  some- 
what tried  by  the  continuance  of  the  spectacle  but,  as  was 
said,  she  who  could  expel  the  Moors  and  Jews,  could  not 
crush  out  the  national  sport,  and  even  the  threats  of  the 
clergy  were  unavailing.  At  last,  on  the  2Oth  of  Novem- 
ber, 1567,  Pius  V.  issued  his  famous  edict  prohibiting  it, 
and  placing  all  princes  who  should  permit  its  continuance 
in  their  dominions  under  the  ban  of  excommunication,  as 
well  as  all  ecclesiastics  who  should  witness  it,  together 


The  Bull-Ring  101 

with  the  bullfighters  themselves,  depriving  the  latter  of 
Christian  burial,  if  their  lives  were  lost  in  the  ring. 

The  thunders  of  the  Church — and  it  is  a  commentary  on 
the  most  Catholic  of  nations — failed  for  once.  Bullfight- 
ing could  not  be  put  down.  The  edict  of  the  Church  be- 
came a  dead  letter.  And  finally  the  masters  of  theology 
in  Salamanca  appear  to  have  settled  the  matter,  and  all 
was  as  before.  With  the  difference,  however,  that  oppo- 
sition, as  might  have  been  expected,  had  added  a  new  im- 
pulse, and  now  all  over  Spain  the  talk  of  the  ring  grew 
more  and  more  familiar. 

Charles  V.  killed  a  bull  with  a  lance  in 
Valladolid  at  the  birth  of  his  son.  Fitting 
tribute  to  Philip  !  From  that  time  to  the 
present,  with  the  exception  of  the  short  Na- 
poleonic period,  bullfighting  has  never  lan- 
guished. 

In  1612  Philip  III.  granted  to  Ascanio 
Manchino  special  rights  controlling  bullfight- 
ing in  Valencia.  These  rights  expired  in  1647 
(being  for  three  lives)  and  this  is  among  the 
first  instances  where  private  individuals  were 
granted  the  privilege,  afterward  everywhere 
repeated,  from  which  has  developed  the  pres- 
ent method  of  leasing  the  ring. 

In  the  reign  of  Philip  IV.  the  grandeur  and 
luxury  of  these  entertainments  had  reached  an 
extraordinary  degree.  It  was  the  fashion  for 
the  nobility  to  engage  in  the  sport,  and  the 
accomplishments  of  a  gentleman  included  the  REJON  LANCE 
frequent  breaking  of  lances  on  the  necks  of  USED  BY 

n      .  CABALLERO  DE 

bulls  in  the  open.  PLAZA 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  espinillera,  or  gregoriana, 


102  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

(to-day  called  mono)  a  protection  of  iron  for  the  legs,  came 
into  use. 

It  is  this  iron  casing  which  gives  the  peculiar  stiff  ap- 
pearance to  the  legs  of  the  picador  when  he  is  mounted. 
The  belly  of  the  horse  on  which  he  is  astride  is  the  object- 
ive point  of  the  bull,  and  the  leg  of  the  horseman  hanging 
before  this  would  scarcely  escape  laceration  were  it  not 
protected.  After  the  charge  of  the  bull  and  the  death  or 
disabling  of  the  horse  it  is  the  mono,  which  renders  the  po- 
sition of  the  picador  one  of  danger  for,  weighed  down  by 
it,  he  is  unable  to  escape  and  must  rely  on  the  dexterity 
of  those  about  him  to  divert  the  furious  creature's  atten- 
tion. Occasionally  his  iron  protection  has  been  the  cause 
of  his  death. 

When  Philip  V.  came  to  the  throne,  the  first  change  in 
the  classes  took  place  in  regard  to  the  ring.  The  king  was 
not  in  sympathy  with  this  sort  of  amusement,  and  it  soon 
fell  from  universal  favor  among  the  nobles.  But  it  was 
not  to  be  abandoned.  Seeing  their  superiors  deserting 
the  field,  the  lower  people  threw  themselves  into  the  sport 
with  passionate  enthusiasm.  From  that  time  the  change 
was  marked.  As  might  have  been  foreseen,  what  had 
been  the  amusement  of  the  court — an  amateur's  pastime 
and  diversion — became  in  the  hands  of  its  new  champions 
an  art  reduced  to  a  science,  to  which  successive  genera- 
tions of  specialists  were  to  give  a  code  and  the  necessary 
traditions.  Bullfighting  had  really  become  national. 

During  this  period  the  Papal  strictures  had  remained 
an  occasional  thorn  in  the  side  of  the  conscientious  of  the 
Church.  It  was  at  the  instance  of  Ferdinand  VI.  that 
these  were  removed. 

It  was  presented  to  the  Holy  See  that,  in  the  first 
place,  as  the  Papal  edicts  were  unheeded  they  might,  with 


The  Bull-Ring 


103 


advantage  and  dignity  to  the  Church,  not  exist.  In  the 
second  place  it  was  urged  that  the  agility  and  dexterity 
of  the  bullfighters  rendered  accident  most  improbable ; 
and  in  the  third,  that  the  Hospitals  and  Houses  of  Charity 
would  gain  greatly  from  the  aid  resulting  from  the  fiesta  ! 
In  consideration  of  which  the  edicts  were  finally  removed, 
and  the  acquiescence,  if  not  the  approbation,  of  the  Church 
was  made  one  more  active  force  in  the  development  of 
the  corrida. 

A  new  feature  at  this  time  was  the  prolonging  of  the 
life  of  the  bull  by  the  use  of  the  long  garrocha,  or  vara 
(pied}.  In  the 
days  of  the 
gentlemen  bull- 
fighters the  re- 
joncilla  had 
taken  the  place 
of  the  lance, 
and  by  the  sub- 
stitution of  the 
new  instrument 

r  i         i  PARTS  OF  THE  HEAD  OF  THE  PICA,  SHOWING  WRAPPINGS, 

lor  tne  latter   1RON  SOCKET  FOR  HANDLE,  STEEL  POINT  THREADED  TO  SCREW 

tV.^      K  n  1  1      inroc  INTO  SOCKET  AND  WOODEN  SPOOL  OVER  WHICH  THE 

WaS  WRAPPINGS  ARE  LASHED 

not  killed,    but 

held  at  bay  by  the  rider — although  it  was  seldom  that  a 
fierce  animal  failed  to  thrust  aside  the  light  shaft  or  break 
it  short,  after  which  vengeance  was  at  once  wreaked  upon 
the  unfortunate  horse. 

The  use  is  mentioned  of  banderillas  about  the  middle 
of  the  last  century,  at  the  new  Plaza  de  Toros  in  Madrid, 
given  by  Ferdinand  VI. 

A  most  important  adjunct  of  the  matadors  equipment 
was  now  introduced  by  one  of  the  most  famous  toreadors 


104  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


of  his  time.  This  was  the  muleta,  a  piece  of  red  cloth 
used  to  draw  the  bull's  attention  aside  and  to  guide  his 
charge  so  that  the  proper  point  of  the  neck  might  be  ex- 
posed to  the  ready  sword.  The  inventor  of  this  was 
Francisco  Romero.  Up  to  this  time  the  death  of  a  bull 
had  been  arrived  at  after  various  attempts,  and  after 
the  neck  of  the  animal  had  been  repeatedly  pierced. 

•  Things  had  not  yet  been 
so  changed  that  those 
who  fought  on  foot  had 
come  to  assume  the  chief 
glory  of  the  ring.  Tra- 
dition still  accorded 
great  prestige  to  those 
who,  as  the  gentlemen 
had  formerly  done,  met 
the  animals  on  horse- 
back. 

But  a  number  of  light, 
agile  men  had  begun  to 
draw  upon  themselves 
considerable  notice  by 
their  performances  on 
foot.  They  developed 
the  art  of  planting  the 
keen  little  darts,  the 
banderillas,  on  the  neck  of  the  bull,  darting  upon  their  prey 
like  swift,  gleaming  flies,  fixing  their  little  stings  and  van- 
ishing before  retaliation  could  reach  them. 

Romero  developed  the  office  of  the  matador.  Await- 
ing the  approach  of  the  animal  he  guided  its  charges  dex- 
terously past  his  own  body  until  the  favorable  moment 
arrived  when  by  a  single  swift  thrust  the  sword  was  planted, 


THE  MULETA 


The  Bull-Ring 


105 


and  a  moment    later,  the   great    beast   sank  dead.     The 
stroke  was  as  brilliant  as  it  was  merciful. 

Romero  was  born  probably  about  1 700  and  was  by 
profession  a  shoemaker ;  but  his  passion  for  bullfighting 
was  early  excited  and  he 
found  means  to  be  present, 
in  one  capacity  or  another, 
at  the  corridas  of  the  nobles 
until  at  last,  these  taking  an 
interest  in  him,  he  was  given 
an  opportunity  of  learning 
the  art.  And  to  such  pur- 
pose did  he  work  that  he 
became  famous  as  the  great 
master  of  the  time.  He  was 
in  fact,  in  some  measure,  the 
father  of  the  present  bull- 
ring and  his  career  in  it  covered  some  thirty  years.  His 
son  Juan  followed  the  profession  of  his  father,  as  did  his 
grandson  Pedro. 

A  striking  figure  now  appears  upon  the  scene.  A 
man  of  enormous  physical  force,  of  black,  melancholy 
eyes,  dark-skinned,  and  of  an  expression  so  strange  and 
unaccountably  compelling  as  to  be  remembered  as  his  most 
peculiar  trait.  This  man  was  Manuel  Bellon  (el Africano). 

His  history  is  romantic.  When  a  mere  child  he  became 
enamoured  of  a  young  girl  and,  on  the  appearance  of  a 
rival,  dealt  with  him  to  such  purpose  that  he  was  obliged 
to  fly  to  Africa  to  escape  the  punishment  for  homicide. 
It  was  by  this  flight,  perhaps,  and  his  naturally  dark  skin 
that  he  gained  his  title  of  Africano. 

He  seems  to  have  made  a  long  stay  on  the  other  side  of 
the  strait,  devoting  himself  to  a  wild,  savage  life  as  a  hunter, 


FRANCISCO  ROMERO 


io6  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


and  when,  pardon  for  his  former  crime  having  been  ob- 
tained, he  returned  to  Spain  he  brought  back  a  physique 
quite  as  strong  as  when  he  left  and  a  skill  not  diminished 
by  want  of  practice.  For  a  time  he  was  without  an  equal. 
Martin  Barcaiztegui  (called  Martincho)  a  shepherd  from 
Oyarzun  near  San  Sebastian,  was  famous  at  this  time  for  his 
daring  and  astonishing  feats.  His  most  notable  perform- 
ance was  the  receiving  and  killing  of  a  bull  while  seated  in 
a  chair,  his  feet  bound  and  holding  no  other  muleta  than  a 
broad  hat  in  the  left  hand.  This  feat,  which  was  per- 
formed repeatedly,  is  of  such 
a  remarkable  nature  that  it 
has  been  doubted.  But  Fran- 
cisco Goya,  whose  savage  and 
cynical  temperament  fitted 
him  not  a  little  to  tell  the  tale 
of  the  ring  on  canvas,  was  the 
friend  of  Martincho  and  has 
painted  him  in  the  perform- 
ance of  it,  and  all  contempo- 
rary authorities  verify  the 
fact.  Martincho  retired  fin- 
ally. He  died  at  Deva,  on 
the  1 3th  of  February,  1800. 
A  more  skilful  and  not 
less  daring  man  of  the  same 
period  was  the  famous  Jose 
Candido.  His  early  life  is 
not  known  beyond  the  fact 
that  he  was  born  in  Chiclana. 
Candiclo  appears  to  have  been  a  man  no  less  anxious 
to  achieve  the  impossible  than  was  Martincho,  and  his  first 
feats  bade  fair  to  give  him  the  distinction.  With  only  a 


BANDERILLAS 


The  Bull-Ring  107 

broad  hat  in  his  left  hand  he  managed  to  despatch  the 
animal  with  a  single  blow  of  a  dagger  instead  of  the  usual 
sword.  But  this  was  only  the  beginning.  The  ring  was 
to  owe  him  one  of  its  own  most  brilliant  feats, — the  salto 
de  testuz. 

Facing  the  bull  in  the  centre  of  the  ring,  at  a  consider- 
able distance  (20  or  30  varas  ),  he  would  make  a  straight 
dash  at  the  animal.  The  latter  instantly  lowering  its  head 
to  catch  the  advancing  enemy  presented  the  sought-for 
attitude,  and  the  next  moment  the  matador  had  sprung 
upon  the  forehead,  stepped  to  the  broad  back  and  dropped 
to  the  earth  in  a  graceful  attitude  over  the  tail  of  the 
bull. 

On  the  23d  of  June,  1771,  Candido  met  his  death  in 
Puerto  de  Santa  Maria.  Slipping  in  the  blood  of  a  fallen 
horse,  the  bull  caught  him,  transfixed  him  through  the 
kidneys  and,  after  tossing  him  about,  finally  hurled  him  to 
a  considerable  distance. 

The  audience  at  once  left  the  plaza  and  a  doctor  was 
sought  unavailingly.  When  one  finally  reached  the 
scene  from  Cadiz  the  victim  was  beyond  recovery.  He 
left  his  clothes  and  the  money  gained  that  day  to  the 
poor;  3300  reals  to  each  of  his  sisters  ;  to  his  wife  and 
daughter,  his  "  houses,  vineyards,  possessions,  cattle, 
sheep,  over  5000  doubloons  in  money,"  etc. 

Carlos  III.  once  more  made  the  attempt  to  stop  bull- 
fighting. He  failed,  as  the  Church  had  done.  During  the 
28  years  of  his  reign  to  1778,  there  took  place  in  the  plaza 
of  Madrid  440  corridas  and  about  4500  bulls  were  killed. 
Several  toreadors  were  injured  but  no  lives  were  lost  dur- 
ing the  entire  period. 

There  now  appeared  a  man  considered  more  remark- 
able than  his  predecessors  by  all  writers  on  the  ring. 


io8  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


This  is  Joaquin  Rodriguez,  knowrn  as  Costillares.  He  is 
the  inventor  of  the  volapie.  In  the  mind  of  the  aficionado 
this  bullfighter  still  has  a  place  of  honor  from  which  no 
subsequent  comer  can  displace  him. 

Costillares  was  a  native  of  Seville,  and  was  born  in  the 
barrio  of  San  Bernardo  before  the  middle  of  the  XVIIIth 

century.  His  father  was  em- 
ployed in  the  slaughter-house 
of  the  city  and  as  soon  as 
Joaquin  was  old  enough  he 
was  taken  as  assistant.  But 
the  instinct  of  the  bullfighter 
is,  it  has  been  said,  akin  to  the 
poetic  instinct  in  its  assertive- 
ness  !  The  son  of  a  mere 
killer  of  cattle  in  the  common 
way  became  the  most  artistic 
chief  in  the  trade  of  his  time. 
It  needed  two  generations 
to  arrive  at  so  phenomenal  a 
result ! 

Meeting  the  then  famous  matador,  Pedro  Palomo,  the 
young  man  attracted  his  attention,  gained  his  friendship 
and  support,  was  given  lessons  by  him,  and,  at  the  age  of 
sixteen  appeared  in  his  cuadrilla,  for  the  first  time  before 
the  public. 

As  was  natural,  his  first  work  of  importance  was  that 
of  banderillero  and  so  well  did  he  do  this  that,  with  the 
advice  of  the  best  toreros  of  his  time,  he  took  the  sword 
of  matador  at  the  age  of  twenty  and  was  presented  to  the 
world  in  that  capacity  in  his  native  city  by  no  less  a  man 
than  Manuel  Bellon,  el  Africano. 

Costillares  is  famous  for  his  careful  study  of  the  cir- 


COSTILLARES 


The  Bull-Ring  109 

cumstances  of  each  various  act  made  in  the  ring.  He 
made  it  a  point  to  know  the  animals  with  which  he  played 
his  game  of  death,  and  varied  his  method  of  attack  in 
each  instance.  He  seemed  to  have  possessed  the  true 
insight  into  the  character  of  each  particular  bull  and  dealt 
with  him  accordingly. 

Up  to  this  time  in  the  ring  there  had  been  a  grave 
difficulty  in  the  use  of  the  long  and  more  piercing  gar- 
rochas,  or  lances,  by  which  the  bull  was  much  more  ex- 
hausted through  pain  and  loss  of  blood  than  at  present. 
It  frequently  happened  that  when  the  matador  arrived  for 
the  finishing  stroke,  the  animal  could  not  be  induced  to 
charge.  He  would  retire  to  the  encircling  wall  of  the 
barera,  where,  too  weak  to  jump  over  and  escape,  he 
would  refuse  for  the  moment,  to  notice  his  antagonist  and 
stand  panting  and  exhausted.  This  had  always 
been  a  trying  and  annoying  moment  for  the  mata- 
dor. Forced  to  abandon  the  chance  of  a  brilliant 
stroke  he  was  obliged  either  to  advance  and  kill 
the  animal  by  repeated  thrusts  or  have  it  done  for 
him  by  a  treacherous  stroke  from  above  such  as  that 
by  which  the  puntillero  ends  an  expiring  bull  to-day. 
Costillares  discovered  a  remedy.  He  invented  the 
volapid.  The  date  of  the  introduction  of  this  suerte 
is  1770-80. 

The    volapid  consists   in  completely    reversing 
the  usual  order  of  attack.      Instead  of  awaiting  the 
bull  the  matador  advances  slowly  toward  him,  the 
sword  poised,  and  then,  dropping  the  muleta  be-      OR 
fore  his  eyes  and  past  his  muzzle,   induces  the  ani-  PUNTILLA 
mal  to  thus  lower  the  head  exposing  the  vulnerable  point 
behind.      Instantly   the    sword    is    driven    home    and  the 
bull  falls  dead.     The  one  great  danger  of  this  is  the  pos- 


no  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

sibility  that  the  bull  may  at  the  instant  of  the  taunt 
have  still  sufficient  strength  in  him  to  rise  with  a  last 
supreme  effort  and  charge.  In  this  event,  called  en  un 
tiempo  (together),  the  bullfighter  is  in  extreme  peril  as 
there  is  no  time  or  space  to  change  his  position.  He 
must  now  succeed.  His  life  may  depend  on  the  steadiness 
with  which  the  lono-  keen  blade  is  sent  home.  And  here 

o ' 

it  is  that  the  mettle  of  these  men  is  shown.  With  a  clear 
realization  of  the  meaning  of  their  position  they  will  stand, 
with  rare  exceptions,  unflinchingly,  and  calmly  go  through 
their  part.  Few  bullfighters  lack  this  sort  of  cool  bravery 
although,  naturally,  the  better  ones  possess  more  of  it. 
They  combine  agility  with  what  seems  a  reckless  bold- 
ness, which  is  usually  made  successful  by  the  actual  calm- 
ness of  the  actor. 

Costillares  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of  authoritative 
disposition.  He  was  the  first  to  form  a  united  cuadrilla, 
of  which  he  remained  the  acknowledged  chief.  Among 
his  disciples  was  the  famous  Pepe  Hillo  about  whose  name 
a  host  of  traditions  and  tales  has  gathered.  He  died  one 
year  before  the  latter  at  Madrid,  on  the  2/th  of  January, 
1800.  Costillares  is  also  famous  as  having  in  his  day  re- 
ceived, for  a  single  performance,  no  less  than  3000  reals,  a 
sum  unheard  of  before  that  time,  but  which  would  be  little 
enough  to-day. 

Two  toreadors  now  occupied  the  ring  :  Pedro  Romero 
and  Jose  Delgado.  The  former  presented  a  careful,  dig- 
nified, exact  performance  to  the  public  ;  the  latter  :  one  of 
incredible  dash  and  spirit.  Both  were  of  incomparable 
ability  in  their  special  lines.  But  to  Pepe  Hillo  (Delgado) 
has  been  given  the  popular  affection  so  that  there  is  no 
aficionado  in  all  Spain  who  is  not  ready  to  go  into  ecstasies 
at  the  mere  mention  of  his  name. 


The  Bull-Ring 


ii  i 


PEPE  HILLO 


If  the  portraits  of  Hillo  which  have  reached  us  are  life- 
like, his  character  is  not  far  out  of  keeping  with  his  ap- 
pearance. Shrewd,  jovial, 
honest,  and  with  keen  ap- 
preciations, he  was  the  man 
of  all  others  to  take  the 
public  fancy  and  hold  it.  No 
doubt  he  possessed  personal 
as  well  as  public  attractive- 
ness. He  is  described  as  full 
of  fun  and  wit,  gorgeous  in 
his  dress,  lavish  of  money, 
kind  to  the  unfortunate  of  his 
own  profession  as  of  others 
and  combining  with  it  all  a  most  remarkable  dexterity  and 
skill.  He  was  a  spoiled  child  of  his  time.  Women  of 
the  highest  rank  lost  their  hearts  to  him  and  not  a  few 
were  the  scandals  which  linked  his  name  with  that  of  some 
illustrious  dame  of  court  or  society. 

He  was  born  at  Villalvilla  in  the  Province  of  Sevilla, 
on  the  iQth  of  September,  1768.  His  father  was  later  a 
shoemaker,  a  trade  which  the  son  also  followed.  Aban- 
doning this  the  young  man  entered  the  slaughter-house  of 
Sevilla,  and  later,  under  the  instruction  of  Costillares,  he 
entered  upon  his  future  career,  and  was  soon  far  ahead  of 
his  fellows.  His  dash  and  abandon  were  what  most  told 
with  his  audience,  coupled  as  they  were  with  the  rapidly 
acquired,  but  not  the  less  accurate,  knowledge  of  his  part, 
and  he  soon  began  to  divide  honors  with  his  more  severe 
and  classical  competitor,  Pedro  Romero. 

Led  on  to  the  most  reckless  acts  by  the  recognition  he 
received,  he  was  repeatedly  wounded  and  in  more  than 
two  dozen  instances  received  serious  thrusts  from  the  horns 


ii2  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


of  angry  bulls.  At  the  bottom  of  this  was  the  ever  present 
desire  to  surpass  all  others,  especially  Romero  ;  and  the 
public,  recognizing  the  supreme  efforts  he  was  making, 
soon  joined  him  and  ranked  him,  though  possibly  unjustly, 
above  his  rival. 

It  is  strange  that  the  death  of  Pepe  Hi  Ho  was  by  a 
cause  he  had  himself  feared.  Both  he  and  Costillares  had 

requested,  in  the  year  1 789,  that 
Castillian  bulls  be  eliminated  from 
the  programme,  the  reason  for 
this  being  the  known  savage  and 
uncertain  temper  of  these  animals. 
Twelve  years  later  he  was  to  be 
killed  by  one  of  these  very  Cas- 
tillian bulls. 

His  end  (in  his  thirty-third 
year)  is  one  of  the  most  dramatic 
and  at  the  same  time  ghastly 
scenes  of  this  theatre  of  death. 

The  seventh  bull  was  in  the 
ring  and  had  already  received 
three  or  four  lance  thrusts,  al- 
though it  had  repeatedly  fled  from 
the  horses,  of  which  it  showed  fear. 
BULLFIGHTER'S  SWORD  Antonio  de  los  Santos  succeeded 

in  placing  a  pair  of  banderillas  with  great  skill,  and  he  was 
followed  by  two  other  banderilleros  who  added  three 
more  pairs. 

After  this  the  matador,  Pepe  Hillo,  took  the  sword. 
Making  three  passes  of  the  muleta,  two  in  the  ordinary 
way  and  one  after  the  manner  known  as  alpecho,  he  finally 
advanced  to  give  the  fatal  stroke.  It  failed.  The  sword 
inflicted  only  a  long  flesh-wound  and  the  next  instant  the 


The  Bull-Ring  11 


tossing  horn  had  caught  in  the  clothing  of  the  matador 
he  was  hurled  with  great  force  to  the  earth,  striking  upon  his 
shoulder-blade.  Whether  he  was  stunned  or  not  by  this 
blow  is  doubtful,  but  a  moment  later  the  furious  animal  was 
upon  him  and  its  horn  had  plunged  deep  into  the  stomach. 
Tossed  aloft  on  the  creature's  horns  it  is  said  that  he  was 
seen  to  make  a  desperate  effort  to  free  himself,  but  the 
raging  animal,  having  at  last  something  upon  which  to 
wreak  its  fury,  kept  possession  of  the  body  for  more  than 
a  minute,  by  which  time  the  contents  of  the  abdomen  and 
chest  cavity  had  been  hopelessly  mutilated.  Ten  ribs  of 
the  unfortunate  man  were  broken,  and  he  was  practically 
dead  when  a  final  toss  set  him  free  from  his  frightful  posi- 
tion. Fifteen  minutes  later  he  breathed  his  last. 

Such,  briefly  told,  though  without  the  close  phraseology 
of  the  ring,  is  the  famous  death  of  a  most  famous  bull- 
fighter. It  happened  in  the  presence  of  a  vast  assemblage 
of  people,  and  it  is  one  only  of  many  which  the  same  audi- 
ence has  witnessed.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the 
tiger  in  the  streets  of  the  capital  aroused  no  more  serious 
fears  in  the  breasts  of  women  and  children  accustomed  to 
this  spectacle.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  tiger  which  should  have 
felt  ill  at  ease. 

Pepe  Hillo  was  an  ignorant  man,  if  a  bullfighter  can 
be  called  so.  He  could  not  write  beyond  the  signing  of 
his  own  name,  which  he  wrote:  Joseph  Hillo.  He  was 
pre-eminently  an  actor,  and  though  he  played  tragedy  in 
the  end,  his  whole  life  was  one  continued  comedy  part. 
He  has  become  by  his  death  a  hero,  and  remains  a  sort  of 
Byron  of  bullfighting  to  this  day. 

The  great  competitor  of  Delgado,  Pedro  Romero,  who 
is  said  to  have  killed  no  less  than  5600  bulls  in  his  life, 
has  been  called  the  Caesar  of  the  ring.  His  fame  rests 


ii4  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

upon  an  invincible  calmness,  an  absence  of  display,  the 
refusing  always  to  employ  a  brilliant  artifice  or  sucrte 

when  the  rule  of  the  ring  did  not 
warrant  it,  and  on  a  dispassionate 
self-assertiveness  of  manner.  He 
was  unquestionably  the  greatest 
bullfighter  of  the  three  (Costillares 
and  Hillo,  the  others)  but  could 
never  win  the  hearts  of  his  audi- 
ence as  Hillo  could  with  his  won- 
derful brilliancy  and  recklessness. 
ROMERO  His  chief  skill  was  in  the  dexterous 

use  of  the  muleta  and  in  the  fact  that  he  received  the  bulls 
in  the  greater  number  of  cases.  He  was  born  at  Ronda, 
Nov.  19,  1754,  and  died  there  at  the  age  of  eighty-five, 
Feb.  10,  1839.  He  had  retired  from  the  ring  in  1799,  in 
his  forty-fifth  year.  His  career  as  a  bullfighter,  though 
ended  before  the  public,  was  extended  later,  however,  for 
he  was  appointed  with  Candido  to  a  professor's  chair  in 
the  Bullfighters'  College,  founded  in  Seville  in  1830. 

With  the  death  and  retirement  of  so  many  of  the  best 
bullfighters,  and  with  the  complications  with  France,  ending 
in  the  Napoleonic  time,  there  closes  one  phase  of  the 
Spanish  bull-ring.  Up  to  this  time  its  development  had 
been  steady.  Romero,  Martincho,  Candido,  Rodriguez, 
Hillo  and  the  second  Romero,  had  one  by  one  brought  their 
special  aptitudes  to  bear  on  its  growth  and  permanent  form. 
It  was  now  approaching  its  present  conditions  although 
many  new  methods  were  yet  to  be  introduced.  In  the  lull 
that  followed  there  is  little  of  importance  to  add  and  it  was 
not  until  long  after  the  re-establishment  of  the  monarchy 
under  Ferdinand  VII.  that  the  gossip  of  the  bull-ring  was 
again  found  interesting. 


The  Bull-Ring 


In  1830,  however,  the  suggestion  that  a  bullfighter's 
college  be  established  showed  a  return  to  more  normal 
conditions  and  the  sport  once  more  revived.  It  was  in 
1833  that  we  have  its  first  example  of  renewed  vitality. 

In  that  year  there  appeared  in  the  Plaza  of  Madrid  a 
young  man  who  had  been  the  disciple  of  the  new  school. 
Shortly  after  the  school  it- 
self was  a  thing  of  the  past, 
but  its  scholar  was  rising  to 
higher  and  higher  place  in 
the  profession  dear  to  the 
people.  The  young  man 
was  Francisco  Montes,  and 
he  was  probably,  taken  in  all 
respects,  the  greatest  mata- 
dor that  ever  lived.  H  e  was 
born  in  Chiclana,  on  the  i3th 
of  January,  1805,  and  re- 
ceived from  his  father,  Juan 
Felix,  a  good  education. 
The  latter,  losing  the  position  he  had  held,  was  reduced  to 
work  for  a  living,  and  the  young  Montes  took  up  the  trade 
of  a  bricklayer,  at  which  he  worked  until  the  death  of  his 
father. 

Attracted  to  the  ring,  however,  he  was  one  day  seen 
practising,  either  at  the  slaughter-house  or  in  the  open,  by 
Candido,  who  gained  him  admittance  to  the  "  School  of 
Bullfighting  "  of  Seville,  with  a  daily  pension  of  six  reals. 
The  young  man's  fortune  was  made. 

Owing  to  the  exceptional  advantage  of  having  been 
the  pupil  of  Pedro  Romero  himself,  Montes  at  once  devel- 
oped the  extraordinary  aptitude  of  which  he  had  shown 
signs  at  the  very  first  and,  as  Romero  had  foretold,  he  was 


7 


MONTES 


u6  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


soon  a  marked  man.  In  1831  he  became  espada  without 
passing  through  any  of  the  lower  grades  of  the  ring,  and  in 
1833,  as  said,  made  his  appearance  at 
the  court,  alternating  with  the  brothers 
Ruiz. 

The  applause  which  he  met  with 
was  phenomenal. 
He  at  once  rose 
to  the  first  rank, 
and  his  astonish- 
ing activity,  firm- 
ness, agility  and 
calmness  were  dis- 
cussed from  one 
end  of  Spain  to  the 
other.  He  was,  it 
seemed,  the  first  to 
successfully  c  o  m- 
bine  the  two 
schools  of  bullfight- 
ing— the  calm,  de- 
termined and  as- 
sured style  of  the 
Rondenan  and  the 
light-moving,  sub- 
tle method  of  the 
Artc  Sevi llano  of 
which  the  unfortu- 
nate Hillo  had  been  so  brilliant  an  ex- 
ample. 

The  history  of  any  one  of  a  class  of 

*.  J  FIRE  BANDERILLA  STRIPPED, 

men  furnishes  its  special  light  on  the         SHOWING  ROCKETS 
whole,  and  the  history  of  Montes  is  a  clear  guide  to  what 


FIRE  BANDERILLA 


The  Bull-Ring  117 

manner  of  man  the  Spanish  bullfighter  really  is.  This 
man  is  the  one  great  perfect  exception  to  his  whole  class 
in  the  chief  requisite  for  its  success  :  self-control.  Montes 
was  one  of  those  who  early  controlled  himself  and  later 
controlled  his  environment.  When  his  father  had  lost 
his  means  of  support  the  son  did  a  thing  most  remarkable 
in  a  Spaniard,  but  more  so  in  one  who  had  already  a  lean- 
ing to  the  ring.  He  was  educated  and  he  became  a 
bricklayer.  He  took  the  work  nearest,  and  when  the 
time  came  he  was  ready  for  the  next  work. 

Much  of  his  success  was  doubtless  due  to  his  arbitrary 
control  over  his  associates.  None  disputed  him  or  his 
authority  ;  in  his  cuadrilla  everyone  had  his  place  and 
was  found  there.  When  his  favorite  pupil  Jose  Redondo 
failed  to  plant  the  banderillas  through  what  Montes  con- 
sidered carelessness,  he  called  to  him  : 

"  You  are  a  fine  banderillcro  !  Keep  out  of  the  ring  for 
the  rest  of  this  day  and  learn  how  the  others  fasten  the 
sticks."  And  the  other,  the  one  man  who  in  the  ring,  it 
has  been  said,  in  some  degree  equalled  or  even  surpassed 
Montes  in  receiving  a  bull,  obeyed  him  without  a  word. 

After  1845  his  ability  began  to  show  signs  of  weaken- 
ing and  in  1846  this  was  more  marked,  although  he  then 
appeared  in  the  Royal  Corridas  with  great  credit.  In 
1850  he  returned  to  Madrid  for  the  last  time,  and  in  that 
same  year  he  was  wounded  in  the  ring  (June  21).  The 
whole  city  was  in  commotion  at  the  news.  The  house 
where  he  lay  in  a  critical  condition  was  besieged,  and  when 
he  finally  rallied  and  returned  home  to  Chiclana  in  Sep- 
tember, it  was  with  the  prayers  of  all  Madrid.  He  died 
in  1851  of  a  fever,  hastened,  it  was  said,  by  excesses  into 
which  he  had  plunged  from  some  secret  trouble. 

His  peculiar  quality  was  physical  strength  especially  in 


n8  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

the  legs  and  waist.  This  gave  him  an  advantage  in  the 
ring  in  most  of  the  suertes,  and  his  complete  training, 
nerve  and  dexterity  did  the  rest.  He  was  the  pupil  of 
the  best  bullfighter  of  the  past,  and  surpassed  his  master. 
His  appearance  was  always  that  of  a  man  older  than  he 
was,  but  in  the  last  four  or  five  years  of  his  life  he  seemed 
to  break  completely. 

The  time  of  and  following  Montes  is  called  the  Renais- 
sance of  the  ring.  The  sport  again  revived  all  over  Spain, 
and  this  period  lasted  for  something  near  twenty-five 
years. 

During  that  time  new  men  appear  who,  though  adding 
but  little  to  the  list  of  traditional  feats,  have  gained  recog- 
nition as  masters. 

Let  me  say  here  that  while  there  is  a  natural  tendency 
to  express  righteous  indignation  at  the  whole  scheme  of 
the  Spanish  national  sport,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
probably,  of  all  sports  indulged  in  by  men,  it  is  the  most 
difficult  of  successful  accomplishment,  and  demands  more 
of  the  qualities  which  go  to  make  up  physical  bravery  than 
any  other.  I  therefore  speak  and  think  of  the  bullfighter 
as  a  man  with  a  distinct  career,  and  rather  as  a  supremely 
skilful  athlete,  than  a  highly  developed  species  of  butcher. 
Self-denial  and  self-control  are  quite  as  much  the  chief 
attributes  of  his  ultimate  success  as  they  are  in  other  de- 
partments of  the  sporting  and  athletic  world,  and  the  ele- 
ment of  danger  is  quite  as  great. 

During  this  golden  age  two  names  are  especially 
marked.  Those  of  Francisco  Arjona  Herrera,  popularly 
called  Curro  Cue  hares  and  Jose  Redondo  (el  Chiclanero). 
The  first  of  these  was  born  May  19,  1818,  in  Madrid ;  the 
second  in  Chiclana,  birthplace  of  Montes,  in  1819. 

Arjona  appears  to  have  been  born  a  bullfighter.     His 


The  Bull-Ring 


119 


early  childhood  was  given  up  to  teasing  cattle  after  the 
manner  of  his  elders  of  the  ring,  and  at  twelve  he  was  a 
member  of  the  School  of  Bullfighting  of  Seville,  where 
he  was  promptly  recognized  as  promising  material  and 
taken  under  the  patronage  of  Juan  Leon.  At  the  age  of 
fifteen  he  killed  a  young  bull  in  public  ! 

At  seventeen  he  was  already  a  promising  banderillero 
in  Leon's  cnadrilla  and  in  the  following  year  killed  bulls  in 
earnest.  From  this  time 
his  remarkable  agility  be- 
came famous.  In  1838  Leon 
caused  him  to  join  the  cua- 
drilla  of  the  then  well-known 
Yuste  and  soon  the  prov- 
inces began  to  send  up  to 
the  capital  remarkable  ac- 
counts of  the  twenty-year- 
old  bull-fighter  who  had 
appeared.  Two  years  later 
he  made  his  first  appearance 
in  Madrid  in  the  ring  of  the 
Puerta  de  Alcala,  alternating  vt\ti\  Juan  Pastor,  (el  bar  her o). 

His  improvement  was  steady  and  in  1845  he  appeared 
with  Leon  and  Jose  Redondo  in  Madrid.  At  this  time 
Montes  was  passing  from  view  and  the  two  (Redondo 
and  Arjona)  were  the  coming  men.  El  Ckiclancro  soon 
took  the  lead,  however,  in  public  opinion.  In  1868  he 
went  with  his  cuadrilla  to  Cuba  and  died  in  Havana  of 
yellow  fever  the  day  before  that  set  for  his  first  appear- 
ance there. 

He  was  uneducated,  but  of  a  generous  disposition. 
When  Mendizabal,  the  statesman,  was  stricken  with  the 
illness  which  later  ended  his  life  he  was  in  reduced  circum- 


k: 


ARJONA 


120  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

stances.  Arjona  came  to  see  him,  like  many  others,  and 
said  in  his  frank  way:  "  Senor  Don  Juan,  here,  you  shall 
suffer  for  nothing!  Let  a  hundred  doctors  come;  I'll 
pay.  I  bring  no  more  now,  caramba !  but  I  leave  this 
and  I  will  come  back,"  and  he  slipped  eight  thousand 
reals  under  the  pillow,  and  went  away.  At  another  time 
(in  1860),  when  the  troops  were  leaving  for  Africa,  he  was 
present  and  gave  his  money,  cigars,  and  handkerchief  to 
the  soldiers.  He  then  went  to  a  certain  general  and  said  : 
"  I  have  nothing  more  on  me,  but  all  I  have  at  home  is  for 
the  army.  Dispose  of  it  for  its  maintenance — seven  hun- 
dred goats,  seventy  hogs  and  some  cows — all  I  possess." 

He  was  a  man  of  impulse,  unable  to  control  his  envy 
of  the  success  of  others,  and  never  had  the  respect  of  his 
subordinates.  He  would  take  no  advice  in  the  ring  and 
had  a  peculiar  style  of  bullfighting  of  his  own  which  was 
as  often  condemned  as  praised. 

Jose  Redondo,  cl  Chiclanero,  was  left  by  the  death  of 
his  father,  in  1836,  without  resources.  Turning  to  the  bull- 
ring he  soon  gained  some  success  and  from  that  advanced 
so  rapidly  that  two  years  later,  in  1838,  Montes,  chancing 
to  see  him  perform,  said  to  him : 

"In  you  there  is  the  material  for  much  ;  if  you  will 
work  you  will  go  where  few  go." 

The  words  of  the  master  of  the  ring  confirmed  the  young 
man  in  his  determination.  He  rose  rapidly.  In  1839  he 
was  without  rival  as  -^banderillero.  In  1842  Montes  gave 
him  alternative  in  Bilbao,  although  he  was  unfortunate  at 
first,  being  wounded  seriously  there,  and  barely  escaping 
with  his  life.  A  year  later  his  reputation  was  assured. 

There  was  still  to  be  added  to  the  art  of  bullfighting 
one  other  suerte,  and  this  one  of  the  most  graceful  and 
difficult.  The  volapie  of  Costillares,  the  salto  de  testuz  of 


The  Bull-Ring  121 

Candido,  the  receiving  of  the  bull  by  Montes,  were  each  a 
step  in  the  growth  of  the  ring  to  its  modern  conditions. 
It  remained  for  Antonio  Carmona  (el  gordito)  to  invent 
the  quiebro. 

Antonio  Carmona  y  Sisque  was  born  in  Seville  on  the 
1 9th  of  April,  1838,  and  he  is  said  to  have  killed  a  bull,  with 
the  utmost  skill  and  grace,  in  1854,  being  then  sixteen  years 
old.  He  rose  rapidly  and  in  1857  was  already  famous  for 
his  skill  with  the  bander  illas.  One  year  later  he  intro- 
duced the  quiebro  and  at  once  took  his  place  at  the  front 
among  the- best  men  of  his  time. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  describe  this  performance  further 
than  as  a  swift  bending  of  the  body  to  right  or  left,  as  the 
case  may  be,  without  moving  the  feet  from  their  position, 


PLAZA  DG  TOMS 


La  corrida dc  almno  anunciada  para  hoy,  se  ha 

suspendido  por  ___________ 

v  se  verilicara  

Los  que  huyaii  comprado  Itillclcs  para  esla  corrida,  y  no 
quieran  conservarbs  ea  su  poder,  pucdcn  devohertos  alDes- 
padio  dc  la  calle  dc  Sevilla,  liasta  las  de  la  Uirdo  de  hoy. 

Lo  qu<»  st>  avisa  ai  public*)  para  su  eonodiuiento. 

Madrid  _         de  . 


^••BBBBHHHBiK    ..... 

A  NOTICE  OF  POSTPONEMENT 


avoiding  thus  the  onslaught  of  the  bull.  It  is  sometimes 
performed  with  great  effect  kneeling.  It  is  done  close 
upon  the  animal  and  not  uncommonly  results  in  the 
wounding  of  the  torero. 


122  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

We  have  now  come  to  a  point  where  the  methods  and 
tendencies  of  the  modern  ring  have  been  practically  de- 
veloped. The  art  of  bullfighting  is  upon  the  basis  of 
trained  skill.  The  path  of  the  torero  is  marked  out  and 
his  individual  desire  for  reputation  can  no  longer  be  grati- 
fied as  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  founders  of  the  ring. 
The  audience  has  learned  what  to  expect  from  its  favorite 
and  is  intolerant  of  minor  innovation.  New  suertes  are 
not  likely  to  be  introduced.  The  consideration  of  the 
modern  ring  is,  therefore,  little  more  than  a  repetition  of 
the  older  sport  shorn  of  the  interest  attendant  upon  its 
growth  and  development. 


HEAD  OF  PICA  OR  LANCE 


VIII 
MADRID— CALATAYUD 

WE  are  leaving  Madrid  and  have  clattered  down  from 
the  Piterta  del  Sol  through  wet  streets,  in  the  small 
uncomfortable  hotel  carriage.  The  train  stands  waiting 
by  the  gloomy  platform.  Each  Guardia  Civil  is  buried 
in  his  cloak ;  a  faint  line  of  cigarette  smoke  arises  here 
and  there  about  the  half-hidden  faces  of  the  waiting  pas- 
sengers. The  woman  who  sells  papers,  matches,  novels, 
and  the  "  Lives  "  of  great  Spaniards,  at  the  little  stand,  is 
shut  in  despondently  and  rolled  up  in  shawls.  She  peers 
inquiringly  up  and  down  at  every  passer  poking  her  fat 
neck  out  like  a  turtle  from  its  shell  and  drawing  it  in 
again  with  a  slight,  audible  grunt  of  disgust  when  no  pur- 
chases are  made.  Of  all  those  volumes  with  flaring  and 
attractive  titles  she  sells  not  one  and  even  the  newspapers 
are  going  off  slowly.  A  bedraggled  woman  with  a  big- 
eyed  baby  is  saying  good-bye  at  the  door  of  a  third-class 
compartment  and  the  "  Senores  viajeros  al  tren  "  begins 
to  be  slowly  chanted  by  the  guard  with  all  the  solemnity 
of  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  most  religious  of  nations.  A 
narrow  line  of  gray  light  shows  above  the  roofs  of  the 
cars,  gleaming  under  the  steady  downpour  that  spatters 
upon  them,  and  out  over  the  platform  floor  in  a  fine  de- 
scending mist ;  everywhere  a  sombre  gloom. 

123 


124  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

Two  men  get  into  my  compartment  dragging  and  lift- 
ing a  boy,  a  little  fellow  of  three,  wrapped  in  a  capa  after 
the  fashion  of  his  parents.  The  miniature  garment  is 
lined  with  red  and  purple  velvet  and  falls  in  folds  below 
his  small,  white,  sharp  features  and  wide-open  eyes.  "La 
capa  todo  lo  tapa"  I  think,  guessing  the  gaunt  little  form 
below,  and,  glancing  over  him,  wonder  how  many  listless, 
work-wanting  generations  it  has  taken  for  some  stern, 
straight-backed,  Moor-spiking  progenitor  to  dwindle  across 
posterity  and  end  in  this. 

I  settle  back  in  my  seat  followed  by  the  piercing  black 
eyes  that  watch  me  curiously,  pondering  me  deeply, 
doubtless,  and  arriving  perhaps  at  profound  conclusions 
as  to  my  nationality  and  value. 

And  then  with  bell  and  chant  and  slam  of  doors  and  a 
little  jerk  and  rumble  we  start  out  into  the  gray,  solemn 
landscape.  Madrid,  like  Rome,  has  a  desolate  environ- 
ment. Far  away  the  naked  mountains  raise  their  sombre, 
repellent  outline  against  the  sky,  and  the  bare,  broken 
plain  is  as  cheerless  at  times  as  the  Campagna  itself, 
though  it  may  claim  as  an  advantage  the  absence  of  the 
lurking  malaria  of  the  older  city.  A  dreary  place,  indeed, 
is  central  Spain,  save  for  those  few  wonderful  weeks  of 
early  spring,  when  the  choked  or  scorched  vitality  of  the 
whole  year  seems  to  wake  and  set  the  blood  of  all  things 
leaping.  Then  a  carpet  of  green,  sprinkled  with  millions 
of  flowers,  stretches  on  every  side,  and  the  fresh,  cool  air 
from  the  hills  steeps  itself  with  perfume  and  comes  to 
temper  the  sun's  heat  like  the  soul  of  the  wonderful  revival. 
And  two  months  later — but  let  no  one  think  of  it !  It  is 
the  hundred  years  of  Xerxes  ;  and  how  greater  an  army  ! 

A  change  is  being  made  in  some  of  these  outlying 
portions  of  the  city.  Arbor  Day  (March  30,)  has  come 


Madrid — Calatayud 


125 


to  be  a  public  festival  in  Madrid.  Early  in  the  morning 
one  sees  the  preparations  in  the  city,  and,  long  before 
noon,  a  ceaseless  stream  of  pedestrians  is  moving  up  the 
Calle  de  Alcald  and  out  into  the  parched,  half-built-up 
districts  and  then,  on  beyond,  to  where  the  ground  has 
been  prepared  for  the  planting  of  the  trees. 

Later  come  the  carriages — long  lines  of  them — hand- 
some coaches,  French  and  English  traps,  English  coach- 
men, not  a  few,  excellent  horses,  and  no  small  number  of 
well-dressed  men  and  women. 

There  are  few  places  where  so  many  specimens  of 
Spanish  humanity  may  be  found  assembled  as  at  this  new 
festival.  The  promised  presence  of  the  Queen  Regent  or 
the  young  King  hurries  an  enthusiastic  crowd  beyond  the 
city,  and  the  long  road  is  for  hours  tramped  by  a  cease- 
less throng  of  spectators. 


CHILDREN   MARCHING 


Then  come  the  children.     They  are  marshalled  in  lines 
and  numbered,  and  in   small  squads  they  march  or  ride  in 


i26  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

cars  to  the  scene  of  the  ceremony.  Little  fellows  they  are 
with  olive  skins,  inquisitive  faces,  and  more  restless,  eager 
eyes  than  their  elders  ;  eyes  soon  to  become  less  eager, 
less  restless  !  And  there  each  one  plants  the  tree  which 
is  supposed  to  be  the  symbol,  in  a  measure,  of  his  life, 
and  with  the  action  is  chanted  a  song  which  is  almost  a 
hymn  in  the  solemn  simplicity  of  its  wording,  its  mingled 
sadness  and  hope  ;  the  hope  that  though  the  hand  that 
planted  it  may  be  taken  away,  yet  one  good  deed  done 
may  be  left  to  thrive  upon  earth  for  others,  which  in 
Spanish  is  sentiment  and  in  English  is  apt  to  become 
sentimentality. 

Two  thousand  four  hundred  children  form  for  this 
day's  celebration,  and  their  restless  lines  stream  onward 
from  the  earliest  hour.  The  starting  point  is,  naturally, 
the  Puerto,  del  Sol,  where  the  cars  are  jammed  with  load 
after  load.  Forty  thousand  persons  turn  out  to  witness 
the  spectacle. 

During  the  first  experiments  of  this  festival  some  diffi- 
culty was  found  in  the  management  of  the  great  number 
of  little  boys,  but  no  mishaps  occur  usually  and  the  day  is 
one  that  deserves  to  be  made  as  much  of  as  it  is.  Per- 
haps no  spirit  of  reconstruction  could  have  found  a  happier 
expression  than  the  reclaim  of  this  waste  with  trees, 
and  the  day  may  not  be  far  distant  when  the  summer 
months  will  be  less  fierce  for  the  poor  of  a  city  partly 
surrounded  by  a  forest. 

The  old  familiar  station  cries  rise  fitfully  outside,  in 
spite  of  the  wet,  and  at  each  new  stop  the  fat,  dripping 
guard  stands  with  outspread  fingers,  striving  not  to  look 
less  and  less  important  as  his  cheerless,  soaked  figure 
grows  more  wet  and  bedraggled.  At  the  smaller  places 
where  the  bustle  is  not  enough  to  drown  the  voices  we 


Madrid — Calatayud  1 2  7 

can  hear,  "Aguardiente — Aguardiente"  or  "Agua  jresca" 
rising  sharp  and  harsh  through  fragments  of  dismal,  dis- 
pirited conversations,  between  whose  long  pauses  the  water 
drips  and  gurgles.  The  woman  behind  the  little  stand 
where  the  white  liquor  is  sold  does  a  good  business  this 
cold  day.  I  say  at  the  smaller  places,  although  it  would 
be  hard  to  recall  clear  impressions  of  any  large  places 
along  our  route.  How  the  faces  stand  out  afterward  in 
one's  memory  !  Knowing,  serious  faces  whose  eyes  meet 
yours  with  a  strange  inquiry,  as  though  asking  your  name 
and  country.  Not  like  French  eyes  these,  or  Italian  or 
German.  There  is  pride  and  grave  dignity  in  them,  and 
underneath  them  are  deep  rings.  The  shoulders  are  too 
often  apt  to  droop,  and  the  quick  fingers,  forever  rolling 
cigarettes,  are  too  nervously  deft. 

There  is  a  man  of  perhaps  twenty-five  by  the  picket 
fence  of  the  station,  leaning  under  the  eaves  of  a  low  shed. 
He  is  wrapped  in  his  great  capa,  and  the  smoke  from  his 
cigarette  puffs  out  and  is  flicked  away  in  the  chilly  gusts 
of  wind  that  now  and  then  dash  the  fine,  misty  rain  in  his 
face.  He  scarcely  stirs,  only  the  eyes  move  restlessly 
from  point  to  point.  Not  a  face  at  the  train  window  es- 
capes him.  He  has  made  profoundly  original  inward 
notes  on  all  that  he  has  seen.  He  has  studied  the  Eng- 
lish woman  who  is  standing  by  an  open  window  with  her 
husband  and  his  intuitive  glance  has  fallen  before  her  stare 
of  curiosity ;  and,  as  he  drops  his  eyes,  he  half  smiles  and 
mutters  a  word  behind  him,  and  some  one  there  bursts 
into  a  fit  of  laughter. 

The  country  is  almost  treeless,  the  towns  at  too  long 
intervals,  and  they  themselves  as  treeless  and  desolate  as 
their  descendants  of  South  America  or  of  Mexico  and 
Arizona  to-day.  Low,  adobe,  tile-roofed  structures,  with 


128  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

crooked  streets  beaten  by  time  and  weather  since  the  sub- 
siding flood  taught  men  how  good  a  thing  was  mud  for 
building.  Here  and  there  splash  a  few  disconsolate,  hope- 
less-looking creatures,  man  and  beast — one's  awakened 
sensibility  can  almost  feel  the  sucking  of  their  feet  in  the 
mud.  Mosquitoes  come  in  at  the  half-open  window  with 
gentle  buzz,  and  bite  vigorously. 

Many  of  those  we  pass  still  carry  the  great  Spanish 
clasp-knife — the  navaja  of  which  one  hears  so  much.  But 

in  the  north 
these  murder- 
ous weapons 
seldom  serve 
a  more  dan- 
ger o  u  s  pur- 
pose than  the 
cutting  of 
food  or  the 
ordinary  uses 
of  the  pocket 
knife.  It  is  in 
the  south  that 
the  flash  ing 
blade  is  ever 
ready  to  leap 
out  and  it  is 

SPANISH  KNIVES  .  .  . 

there  that  the 

click  of  the  ratchet  is  as  deadly  a  sound  as  the  warning 
of  the  rattlesnake. 

Rain  has  been  rare  this  season.  Only  a  few  days  ago 
the  whole  earth  was  parched  and  cracking,  pools  dried, 
the  streams  mere  threads,  muddied  by  the  thirsty  cattle. 
Now  the  water  has  come  with  a  rush,  as  it  always  does  in 


Madrid — Calatayud  129 

this  treeless  land,  and  all  along  up  the  Henares  past 
Alcala,  is  one  continuous  mud-brown,  or  light  new  green. 
In  the  valley  of  the  Jarama,  bulls  are  feeding  along  the 
marshy  banks,  each  with  heavy  buttons  on  his  horns,  not 
to  be  removed,  perhaps,  until  the  distant  day  when  he 
shall  be  ready  to  enter  the  ring  at  Madrid  and  furnish 
amusement  to  a  shouting  audience,  and  a  little  more  repu- 
tation to  Mazzantini,  or  Bombita  or  Guerrita,  if  that  last 
successor  of  Lagartijo  may  have  by  that  time  become 
reconciled  to  the  Madrid  ring.  The  streams  are  swollen 
and  angry. 

The  boy  opposite  me  grows  restless.  His  little  white 
hands  appear  from  beneath  the  folds  of  the  capa,  and  I 
see  them  twitch,  and  clasp  and  unclasp.  What  will  be- 
come of  him,  you  wonder?  He  is  quite  typical  enough 
in  these  days — not  alone  in  Spain  !  But  the  Spanish 
phase  is  peculiar.  Lean  over  and  speak  to  him,  ask  him 
some  simple  question, — or  some  question  not  simple. 
Will  he  stare  at  you  with  the  shy  healthiness  of  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  or  a  German  ?  Not  at  all ;  he  will  treat  you  most 
seriously,  he  will  consider  what  you  say,  he  will  answer 
you  after  thought.  He  will  waive  his  meagre  little  hands 
with  expressive  gestures.  He  will  explain  or  argue,  or 
politely  doubt ;  he  will  be  a  little  grown-up  person,  in  fact. 
One  of  those  wonderful  small  creations  whom  women  like 
to  pet  and  dress  and  make  much  of,  and  who,  thank  God, 
do  not  live  out  half  their  days.  As  you  talk  with  him  and 
see  the  little  hollow  rings  about  his  brilliant  eyes  and  no- 
tice how  unsteadily  the  heavy  head  seems  set  upon  the 
frail  shoulders,  you  somehow  feel  that  his  very  talk  is 
sapping  some  hidden  source  and  he  is  already  but  the  too- 
slight  covering  of  an  over-intense  flame. 

"  Alcala  de  Henares  !  "     Why  does  the  guard  not  con- 


130  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


CARDINAL  FRANCISCO  XIMENEZ 
DE  CISNEROS 


tinue  :  ancient  Complutum,  birthplace  of  Cervantes  and 

Solis,  site  of  the  great  University,  burial-place  of  Ximenez. 

One  might  almost  add,  burial- 
place    of   that    famous    Com- 

plutensian   Polyglot  Bible, 

afterwards   made    inaccessible 

by  papal  limitation.    The  place 

is  to-day  but  a  shade  of  past 

glory.     There  is  the  true  sense 

of  desolation  about  it  ;  the  arid 

plain  creeps  up  and  envelops 

it.      The  noise  and  stir,  which 

we  like  to  think  once  livened 

the  city  filled  with   its  student 

vitality,  has  died  to  a  memory. 
The   great    buildings    and 

long  streets  have  a  still  greater 

mournfulness,  in  that  they  recall  so  different  a  past.     The 

inhabitants  are  poor.     The  limp  of  pure  idleness  has  be- 
come chronic. 

It  is  hard  in- 
deed to  conceive 
of  this  place  as 
much  of  a  respite 
after  Toledo,  for 
that  gay  though 
mediocre  schem- 
er, the  Duke  of 
Uzeda,  son  of  the 
once  great  and  all- 
powerful  Lerma, 
who,  banished  by 

Philip  IV.  for  eight  years  to  the  latter  place,  was  able  only 


TOMB  OF  CARDINAL  XIMENEZ 


Madrid — Calatayud 


with  the  greatest  difficulty  to  gain  permission  to  come  to 
Alcala.  He  seems  to  have  been  utterly  miserable  during 
his  exile  and  died  here  in  the  spring  of  1624,  a  year  be- 
fore his  persecuted  father  had  fretted  his  life  out  in  Val- 
ladolid.  His  sufferings  are  not  hard  to  understand  after  a 
walk  through  the  streets  of  his  place  of  exile. 

The  old  gate  of  the  Mdr tires  de  Guadalajara  no  longer 
stands.     The  spot  may  be  found,  however,   if  you  look. 
Through  this  portal,  in  1568,  with  great  pomp  and  cere- 
mony,  the    remains    of   the 
patron    saints    of    the    city, 
Justo     and      Pastor,     were 
brought.      Their  story  is  in- 
teresting. 

o 

In  the  days  of  Diocle- 
tian and  Maximian,  *  Da- 
cian,  hater  of  Christians,  was 
sent  to  Spain.  From  Ge- 
rona,  his  path  was  marked 
by  the  blood  of  martyrs. 
San  Felix,  Santa  Eulalia, 
and  a  host  of  others  fell  be- 
fore him,  and  he  at  last  ar- 
rived at  Complutum.  Here, 
however,  he  encountered  a 
somewhat  remarkable  case. 
Two  little  boys,  by  name 
Justo  and  Pastor,  f  of  seven  and  nine  years  respec- 
tively, suddenly  abandoned  their  customary  occupation 
of  learning  their  letters,  and  announced  themselves 
Christians  and  sons  of  Christian  parents.  Word  was 
brought  to  Dacian,  and  the  two  infantile  fanatics  were 

*  Aug.  6,  304,  Esp.  Sag.,  175.  f  Ibid.,  172. 


OBJECTS  WHICH  BELONGED  TO  CARDINAL 
XIMENEZ.     STANDARD,  CENSER,  KEYS 
OF  ORAN   AND  STAFF 


132  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

apprehended.  The  fierce  Roman  may  or  may  not  have 
smiled  slightly  at  the  appearance  of  these  heroic  upholders 
of  the  early  Church.  We  can  hardly  imagine  him  taking 
the  affair  with  all  the  seriousness  portrayed  by  his  histo- 
rian. However,  impervious  to  the  joke  or  not,  he  took 
what  seemed  to  him  the  natural  method  in  dealing  with 
such  a  case, — he  ordered  the  young  saints  spanked. 

But  this  punishment  seems  to  have  had  no  fear-in- 
spiring effect,  and  the  two  are  next  seen  on  the  fatal  stone 
where  their  lives  are  to  be  sacrificed.  The  moment  of  the 
ordeal  approaches.  Justo  with  heroic  fortitude  supports 
his  brother  with  the  firm  words  of  a  man  of  eighty,  and  we 
are  at  some  difficulty  to  prevent  picturing  to  ourselves  an 
involuntary  stroke  of  the  beard.  "  Sons  of  martyrs  are  we 
and,  that  we  fall  not  from  the  firm  faith  of  our  fathers,  we 
come  to  offer  our  lives  in  defense  of  the  faith,"  etc.* 

The  fatal  ceremony  proceeds  and,  as  was  to  have  been 
expected,  a  miracle  is  worked.  The  two  sage  young  lives 
are  closed  ;  but  at  the  place  where  their  knees  pressed  the 
stone — "  softer  than  their  persecutors'  hearts  "-  —hollows 
form  themselves,  which  signs  remain  to  this  day  and  of 
which  the  devout  historian  remarks  :  "  And  this  about  the 
stone  .  .  .  we  read  it  not  in  books  but  we  saw  it  with 
our  eyes,  it  having  pleased  our  Lord  that,  for  the  greater 
glory  of  these  saints  and  spiritual  delight  of  their  followers, 
this  blessed  stone  should  be  preserved  until  now  with  such 
manner  of  hollowings  in  the  two  marks,  that  no  one  could 
deem  them  fashioned  by  the  hands  of  men."  f 

Along  the  route  we  are  following  black  grapes  grow 
plentiful  in  the  gravelly  soil.  Above  Jadraque  stands  the 
castle,  and  over  behind  the  hills,  out  of  sight,  one  may 

*  J.  de  Morales:  Hist.  Ecles.  y  Seg.  de  Guadal.,  92. 
f  A.  de  Morales :  Cr.  Gen.,  Tom.  v.,  57. 


Madrid — Calatayud 


follow  in  imagination  the  line  of  the  Cid  Campeador  to 
Atienza,  or  Miedes,  or  Gormaz,  for,  on  his  exile,  as  says 
the  Poem,  he  here  broke  through  the  hills  and  entered 
Moorish  territory  to  carry  on  the  Christian  advance  and 
finally  take  Valencia,  premature  though  it  proved.  Later 
I  am  to  cross  this  same  country  on  mule-back  and  make  a 
more  thorough  examination  of  the  castle  on  the  hill. 
Now  it  is  but  a  glimpse  and  on,  passing  through  interes- 
ting scenery  on  the  ridge  of  the  Sierra  Ministra,  and  so 
down  the  Jalon  past  Medinaceli  and  Monreal  de  Ariza 
where  Antonio  Perez  was  born. 

At  Ariza  one  must  again  think  of  the  Cid.  This  place 
has  its  castle  as  well.  "  Between  Ariza  and  Cetina  my 
Cid  encamped,"  sings  the  old 
poet,  be  he  Per  Abbat  or 
other.  Here  comes  the  Cid,  if 
you  like,  with  his  faja  loosely 
bound  about  his  loins.  "  The 
ruffian  under  the  dripping 
hat?"  Why  not?  Notice  the 
gigantic  beard,  the  broad  back, 
the  dignity.  He  is  a  beggar? 
What  of  it?  He  needs  but 
"  moros  en  el  campo"  and  his 
good  sword  Tizon  and  horse 
Babieca,  and  we  may  stand 
aside  and  see  good  fighting. 

"  We  Spaniards,"  said  a 
friend  of  mine  in  Madrid,  "are 
all  brave,  that's  not  the  trou- 
ble !  I  will  toss  a  perro  chico 
into  any  regiment  you  like  and  it  will  hit  a  hero.  But 
the  trouble  is  the  fellow  knows  he  is  a  hero  and  wants 


WOMAN  OF  THE   PROVINCE  OF 
GUADALAJARA 


134  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

hero  pay,  i.  e.,  he  wants  a  general's  commission  next 
month  and  if  he  does  not  get  it — there  's  food  for  a 
revolution  ! " 

The  chief  engineer  of  a  railroad  chances  to  be  in  the 
same  compartment  and  gives  me  some  insight  into  the 
construction  of  this  Spanish  line,  destined,  as  he  says, 
one  day  when  the  way  by  Canfranc  and  Huesca  should  be 
open,  to  be  the  shortest  route  to  Paris.  He  gives  detailed 
accounts  of  the  financial  wreck,  consequent  on  inflated 
first  values,  of  road  after  road  in  various  provinces.  A 
sturdy,  white-haired  old  man,  angular  and  erect,  who  takes 
his  snuff  well,  and  with  delicate  flirt  of  the  fingers  after- 
wards, he  lacks  but  a  few  last-century  details  to  set  him 
quite  out  of  a  modern  environment.  Among  other  things 
I  recall  his  detailed  list  of  disasters  of  which  he  had  been 
a  personal  witness  during  his  engineering  career.  He  sat 
and  told  them  off  on  his  fingers  dogmatically,  and  ex- 
plained their  cause  at  length.  Since  that  time  Spain  has 
been  stirred  up  by  a  new  series  of  unprecedented  mishaps 
of  which  the  floods,  the  disaster  at  Mallorca,  and  the 
dynamite  explosion  in  Santander  are  examples.  The  col- 
lapse of  the  roof  of  the  Cathedral  of  Sevilla,  broken  pon- 
tanos  in  the  east,  the  sinking  of  a  battle-ship,  and  floods 
again  have  made  up  the  list. 

Supper  at  Calatayud.  The  place  lies  beneath  a  barren 
ridge,  surmounted  by  a  desolate  castle,  which  has  almost 
become  re-absorbed  into  earth,  watching,  through  long 
years  of  decomposition,  the  mouldering,  minaretted  city 
at  its  foot.  The  Towers  of  Calatayud  with  their  graceful, 
tapering  steeples,  so  exquisitely  harmonized,  are  fair 
preparation  for  the  Ebro  city. 

Those  who  travel  in  Spain  will,  little  by  little,  come  to 
link  certain  hours  of  the  day  with  certain  odors.  One  of 


Madrid — Calatayud 


my  friends  claims  that  he  can  tell  by  one  sniff  abroad  what 
hour  should  be  striking.  But  as  there  are  phases  of  this 
fact  which  are  unpleasant,  we  may  refrain  from  detailed 
descriptions. 
There  is,  how- 
ever, one  odor 
which  is  pecu- 
liar and  I  am 
just  reminded 
of  it.  Look 
out  of  the  car 
window.  A 
man,  a  woman 
and  a  girl  are 
seated  on  a 
bench  and  be- 
tween them  is  a 
small,  reddish, 
earthen  bowl 
from  which  ris- 
es steam.  The 
wind  wafts  this 
gently  away 
and  across  in- 
to your  nostrils 
and  you  sniff 
vigorously. 
You  like  it  ?  You  like  it  very  much.  You  wish  you  knew 
what  it  was  ;  you  wish,  at  the  hotel,  you  could  get  it ;  you 
never  will.  They  will  give  you  what  seems  to  be  it, — but 
no.  You  must  ride  your  six  leagues  before  you  deserve 
to  taste  of  this  dish  of  large,  beautiful  garbanzos  and  red 
sausages  and  meat  and  other  pleasant  things/ 


CALATAYUD— PLAZA  DE  SAN  ANTON 


136  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

After  supper  the  engineer  gives  rapid  little  sketches  of 
his  life  in  the,  hills.  He  has  shot  bears  and  wolves  in  his 
youth  and  has  a  long  scar  on  his  right  arm  as  a  memento 
of  one  of  his  encounters.  He  is  filled  with  the  natural 
enthusiasm  of  the  strong,  healthy,  solitary,  out-of-door 
man.  He  turns  with  the  impetuosity  of  a  boy  from  swift, 
nervous  descriptions  of  the  snow-covered  mountains  of 
Sobrarbe,  above  La  Ainsa,  to  a  torrent  of  invectives 
against  the  present  political  order  of  things.  His  love 
for  the  Church  might  have  been  touching,  had  the  inquis- 
itor not  peeped  out  for  a  moment  at  the  mention  of  the 
Protestants  at  the  capital.  For  the  established  religion, 
or  rather  its  priests,  he  had  no  criticism  beyond  :  "  Buena 
gente,  buena  gente" 


1  he  Lo'veflStof  7 cruel. 


136  A  !n 

Aft 

his  life  in  ti 

youth  and  I  nto 

of  one  of  h 

enthusiasm  tOor 

man.      He  >  ift» 

nervous   i).  iains  of 

Sobrar; 
against  tin 
for  the  Chi ) 
itor  not  p<  • 
Protestant- 
or  rather  i: 


IX 

THE  LOVERS  OF  TERUEL* 

WHEN  French  critics  found  Boccacio  guilty  of  plagi- 
arism from  their  own  early  tale-tellers,  I  am  not 
aware  that  any  like  plea  was  put  forward  from  Spain  in 
behalf  of  the  little  town  of  Teruel  and  of  a  story  whose 
scenes  laid  there  have  become  familiar  as  a  popular  drama 
to  the  entire  Spanish-speaking  world. 

The  fact  is,  however,  that  in  the  instance  which  we  are 
about  to  consider,  we  have  only  to  read  the  Italian  and  then 
his  reputed  Spanish  original  to  find  that  they  are  one  and 
the  same,  and  that  the  merest  variation  of  minor  details  is 
all  that  differentiates  the  tale  of  Girolamo  and  Salvestra  of 
Florence  from  that  of  Marcilla  and  Segura  of  Teruel. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  that  Boc- 
cacio wrote  the  former.  The  latter  is  reported  as  taking 
place  between  the  years  1212  and  1217.  The  one  has  re- 
mained a  classic  from  the  first ;  the  other  has  been  passed 
from  hand  to  hand  in  the  form  of  poems,  history,  novels  and 
dramas — now  well,  now  badly  used — until  at  last,  on  the 
night  of  the  iQth  of  January,  1837,  Don  Juan  Eugenio 
Hartzenbusch  became  suddenly  famous  throughout  Spain 
by  the  production  of  his  drama,  The  Lovers  of  Teruel, 
wherein  the  whole  story  was  related  and  given  its  final  shape. 

*  Reprinted  from  The  Bookman,  August,  1897. 
137 


i38  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

The  name  of  Hartzenbusch  as  well  as  the  phase  in 
Spanish  literature  expressed  by  him,  is  not  as  well  known 
as  it  should  be.  A  mere  outline  of  his  life  will,  however, 
here  be  enough.  His  father,  a  cabinet-maker,  was  a 
German,  his  mother  a  Spanish  woman,  and  the  young 
man  for  some  time  pursued  the  trade  which  was  offered 
to  him  in  the  employment  of  his  father.  During  this 
period  he  devoted  himself  to  translation  chiefly,  and  should 
have  gained,  it  seems  now,  more  reputation  than  he  did. 
Later,  he  was  to  figure  as  a  leader  in  Spanish  literature 
of  his  time,  as  prose  writer,  critic,  bibliophile  and  scholar, 
head  of  the  National  Library,  Academician,  and  popular 
favorite.  He  died  on  the  2d  of  August,  1880,  at  seventy- 
four  years  of  age. 

In  the  town  of  Teruel,  in  the  twelfth  century,  was 
enacted  the  popular  story  which  has  come  down  to  us  to 
serve  as  material  for  plays,  romances  and  poems,  and 
which  has  brought  with  it  much  of  the  middle-age  spirit, 
recalling  a  greater  story  by  a  greater  pen.  The  history 
of  the  Montagues  and  the  Capulets  finds  a  peculiarly  simi- 
lar parallel  in  the  story  of  the  Aragonese  families  of  Segura 
and  Marcilla. 

When  Alfonso  II.  reconquered  the  ancient  Roman 
city  of  Teruel  from  the  Moors  in  1171,  there  were  in  the 
Aragonese  army  no  braver  men  than  Blasco  Garces  de 
Marcilla  and  his  brothers,  descendants  of  the  King  of 
Navarre,  Garcia  I.,  through  Fortun  Garces,  his  grandson. 
These  were  among  the  settlers  who  here  took  up  their 
abode  for  the  advance  of  the  Christian  cause  and  the  hold- 
ing of  the  newly  acquired  city. 

The  son  of  Don  Martin  Garces,  brother  of  Blasco,  also 
named  Martin,  married  Dona  Constanza  Perez  Tizon. 
Their  son  is  one  of  the  chief  figures  in  the  story  which 


The  Lovers  of  Teruel  139 

has  made  all  famous.  Juan  Diego  Marcilla  was  born  in 
the  year  1 1 90. 

Of  the  Marcillas  and  the  family  of  Munoces  there  have 
come  down  details  of  bloody  encounters  in  the  streets,  of 
factions  and  night  attacks,  of  sudden  murders  and  of  quick 
revenge.  The  name  also  of  Segura  is  a  marked  one,  and 
it  was  from  the  house  of  Segura  that  the  other  chief  char- 
acter was  descended.  The  two  family  mansions  were 
found  in  the  present  street  of  "  The  Lovers,"  at  that  time, 
however,  known  as  Ricos-hombres  and  San  Bernardo. 
The  new  name  records  the  tradition. 

At  the  end  of  the  twelfth  century  these  houses  were 
occupied  by  Don  Pedro  de  Segura  and  Don  Martin  Garces 
de  Marcilla  respectively,  both  of  noble  descent,  and  the 
daughter  of  the  former,  Dona  Isabel  de  Segura,  born  in 
1197,  appears  to  have  been  early  the  object  of  the  passion- 
ate attentions  of  the  son  of  the  other  house.  It  was  not, 
however,  until  1212,  when  the  young  lady  had  reached  the 
advanced  age  of  fifteen,  that  her  hand  was  formally  asked 
by  Diego. 

Don  Pedro  de  Segura  figures  in  the  traditional  atti- 
tude of  the  conservative  and  prudent  father.  He  refuses 
the  advances  of  the  young  man  on  the  ground  of  the  lat- 
ter's  want  of  fortune  compared  with  that  of  Dona  Isabel, 
who,  as  the  sole  heiress  of  her  father,  possessed  thirty 
thousand  sueldos,  without  taking  the  house  and  its  con- 
tents into  consideration. 

Whether  it  was  actual  poverty,  or  whether  the  fact  of 
Diego's  being  a  second  son  acted  as  the  cause  of  his  re- 
fusal, is  not  clear,  but  it  is  certain  that  the  lover  insisted 
manfully  upon  his  claim,  and  undertook  to  furnish  the 
wanting  fortune,  to  which  end  he  asked  that  a  space  of 
time  be  given  him,  that  he  might  seek  wealth  in  arms,  the 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


only  means  at  hand.  Diego  left  Teruel  at  once  and  en- 
listed in  the  combined  army  of  Pedro  II.  of  Aragon, 
Alfonso  VIII.  of  Castile,  and  Sancho  II.  of  Navarre, 
which  was  at  the  moment  formed  into  a  coalition,  after- 
wards to  be  famous  in  Spanish  history,  for  the  meeting 
and  destruction  of  the  Moors. 

It  was  in  fact  that  moment  in  the  history  of  the  Re- 
conquest  when  the  most  serious  effort  so  far  undertaken 
against  Spanish-Arabian  influence  was  to  be  successfully 
carried  to  an  end  in  the  bloody  battle  of  Navas  de  Tolosa. 
Here  it  was  that  the  Christians,  united  and  determined, 
met  in  desperate  conflict  a  great  Moorish  army,  and  in 

the  crushing  defeat  of  the 
latter  laid  the  axe  at  the 
root  of  Mohammadanism  in 
Spain. 

It  was  a  short  time  after 
he  had  left  his  native  city, 
that  Diego  is  said  to  have 
taken  part  in  the  struggle, 
he  being  one  of  those  who, 
with  the  king  of  Navarre,  at- 
tacked the  tent  of  the  Mo- 
hammadan  leader,  breaking 
through  the  chain  which  sur- 
rounded that  tent,  by  which 
the  right  was  gained  to  wear 

BANNER  TAKEN  BY  ALFONSO  V,,,  FROM  THE     *  ^^     ar°Und     thfi     mar£in 
MOORS  AT  NAVAS  DE  TOLOSA  AND  NOW  AT      of  tllC    shield     Itt     memory    of 
LAS  HUELQAS,  BURQOS.     IT  MEASURES  , 

3.30  METRES  BY  2.20  METRES  the  deed.      In  various  parts 

of  Spain  broken  fragments  or  single  links,  said  to  be  part 
of  that  chain,  are  still  to  be  seen. 

He  continued  his  struggle  against  the  Moors,  gaining 


The  Lovers  of  Teruel 


great  reputation  and  money  ;  but  as  he  seems  to  have 
been  somewhat  forgetful,  and  spent  more  than  five  years 
—the  allotted  period  —  in  the  undertaking,  he  arrived  at 
Teruel  to  find  that  Isabel  had  become  the  wife  of  Don 
Pedro  Fernandez  de  Azagra,  natural  son  of  Fernandez 
Ruiz,  second  lord  of  Albaracin,  having  surrendered  at  last 
to  the  insistence  of  her  father. 

The  story  goes  that  it  was  on  the  same  day  on  which 
the  lover  returned  that  the  marriage  was  celebrated.  But, 
when  he  learned  of  it  from  his  parents,  in  desperation,  he 
secretly  obtained  entrance  to  her  room,  where  a  somewhat 
unnatural,  but  altogether  dramatic  scene,  we  are  assured, 
took  place. 

After  the  husband  has  fallen  asleep,  Marcilla  addresses 
Isabel  and  implores  her  to  give  him  one  last  kiss.  (Boc- 
cacio  varies  the  story  here  by  making  him  beg  to  lie  by 
her  side,  which  being  granted,  he  most  inconsiderately 
dies  by  holding  his  breath.)  But  the  resolute  lady  resists 
his  advance  ;  and  at  repeating  the  same  request,  he  sud- 
denly adds  :  "  Farewell,  Segura,"  and  falls  dead. 

We  are,  unfortunately,  here  deprived  of  those  precise 
details  with  which  Shakespeare  might  have  presented  us. 
All  happens  in  the  most  dramatic  and  perfect  manner, 
however  ;  conscience  and  the  heart  work  out  the  grand 
total  without  recourse  to  the  meaner  agencies  of  sword 
and  dagger. 

Isabel,  terrified,  perceiving  that  Diego  is  dead,  awakes 
her  husband,  but  fearing  to  relate  to  him  at  once  what  has 
taken  place,  she  begs  him  to  tell  her  some  diverting  story. 
Having  during  its  recital  recovered  her  presence  of  mind, 
she  informs  him  of  what  has  taken  place,  pretending,  how- 
ever, that  it  has  happened  to  a  friend.  Azagra  promptly 
brands  the  lady  of  the  story  as  most  unkind  and  selfish  in 


142  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

not  having  kissed  her  lover  and  for  having  thus  let  him 
die.  Whereupon  Isabel  discovers  the  truth  to  him,  and 
points  out  the  body  of  Diego. 

The  astounded  Azagra  rises  and,  after  considering  for 
some  time,  and  not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  secretly  car- 
ries the  body  of  Marcilla  to  the  door  of  his  father's  house 
where,  in  the  morning,  it  is  discovered.  A  great  cry  is 
raised,  but  to  no  purpose.  The  body  is  without  any  sign 
of  violence,  and  the  corpse  is  finally  prepared  for  burial 
with  great  pomp  and  splendor  corresponding  to  so  noble 
a  family  and  to  the  riches  which  Diego  had  brought  with 
him  from  the  war. 

More  tragedy  now  follows.  With  great  accompani- 
ment of  clergy  and  troops  the  body  is  taken  to  the  church 
of  San  Pedro  ;  whereupon  Isabel,  overcome  with  the  pain 
of  having  been  the  cause  of  the  death  of  her  betrothed, 
resolves  to  go  and  give  Marcilla  the  kiss  which  she  had 
denied  him  in  life.  In  a  rou^h  disguise  she  mingles  with 

cj>  O  <J 

the  women  going  to  the  funeral,  and,  arrived  at  the  church, 
approaches  the  body,  removes  the  cover  from  the  face  of 
Diego  and  kisses  him  upon  the  lips.  At  the  same  moment 
she  expires  upon  the  coffin. 

The  climax  has  now  been  reached  ;  the  dramatic  im- 
pression produced.  All  stand  in  horrified  silence.  Then 
follows  the  discovery  that  Dona  Isabel  Segura  is  the  per- 
son disguised.  Whereupon  Azagra  relates  in  detail  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  preceding  night,  and  it  is  determined 
that  the  two  bodies  shall  rest  in  the  same  sepulchre  ! 

Such  is  the  popular  story.  But  the  curtain  has  not  gone 
down  finally  ;  there  is  an  epilogue  to  be  said.  An  epilogue 
dealing  in  grave-yard  trophies  half-recalled  to  the  flesh.  In 
the  Church  of  San  Pedro  in  Teruel,  to-day,  are  the  veritable 
human  documents  for  the  proving  of  the  tale  to  sceptics. 


The  Lovers  of  Teruel  143 

The  two  bodies  remained  interred,  it  appears,  from  the 
thirteenth  to  the  sixteenth  century,  and  in  the  latter  (as  cer- 
tified to  by  notaries),  in  the  year  1555,  Miguel  Perez  Arnal 
being  judge  of  Teruel,  during  renovations  of  the  ancient 
chapel  of  the  Church  of  San  Pedro,  with  the  object  of  con- 
structing that  which  to-day  is  dedicated  to  the  medical 
saints,  Cosme  and  Damian,  two  remarkably  preserved  bodies 
were  discovered  ;  and  when  it  was  sought  to  learn  whose 
remains  these  were,  it  came  to  light  through  the  records 
of  the  church  that  they  were  those  of  Juan  Diego  de  Mar- 
cilia  and  Isabel  de  Segura,  and  that  no  one  had  been 
buried  either  before  or  after  them  in  that  chapel. 

Having  been  replaced  in  their  former  position,  when 
the  reconstruction  of  the  chapel  terminated,  they  were 
again  exhumed  on  the  i3th  of  April,  1619,  and  from  that 
date  until  1 708  rested  as  peacefully  as  possible  in  a  cup- 
board, whence  they  were  removed  to  the  cloister  and  again 
set  up  in  a  cupboard  with  a  marble  inscription  above  them  : 

Here  repose  the  celebrated 
Lovers  of  Teruel,  Don  Juan 
Diego  Martinez  de  Marcilla 
and  Dona  Ysabel  de  Segura. 
They  died  in  the  year  1217, 
and  in  1708  were  transfer- 
red to  this  church. 

Finally,  in  1854,  the  people  of  Teruel,  realizing  at  last 
the  importance  of  their  mummified  lovers,  had  them  placed 
upon  a  walnut  stand,  supported  mechanically  in  a  standing 
position,  and  clothed  in  light  gauze  skirts  !  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  conceive  of  anything  more  grotesque  or  amusingly 
horrible.  The  romantic  and  passionate  story  ends  in  a 
show-case.  The  dusty,  bony  corpses  raised  to  a  horrible 


144  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

similitude  of  life,  are  even  so  adjusted  as  to  suggest  an 
affectionate  gaze  toward  each  other, — a  gaze  emanating 
from  profound  sockets  above  which  are  two  bald  and  glassy 
heads.  Marcilla  is  the  best  preserved,  the  lady  having 
been  injured  and  having  lost  an  eye  in  the  exhumation 

in  1555- 


X 

ZARAGOZA 

King  Charles,  our  mighty  Emperor,  did  remain 
For  seven  years  complete  in  lands  of  Spain — 
From  mount  to  sea  laid  low  that  high  domain. 
No  castle  that  resisted  could  withstand, 
Nor  town  nor  wall  still  rose  within  the  land, 
Save  Zaragoza,  which  aloft  doth  stand, 
Held  by  the  king  Marsile,  who  loves  not  God. 

CHANSON    DE    ROLAND 

NOTHING  so  clearly  impresses  upon  the  traveller  the 
marked  divergence  in  character  of  Spanish  cities  as 
a  trip  from  Madrid  to  one  of  the  provincial  capitals.  In 
Zaragoza  this  is  especially  emphasized.  The  capital  of 
Aragon  might  surely  be  expected  to  represent  a  type  of 
peninsula  city  not  greatly  unlike  others  of  the  same  popu- 
lation. It  has  been  subjected  to  somewhat  the  same  con- 
ditions as  others.  Sufficiently  removed,  in  early  times, 
from  the  inaccessible  central  portion  to  be  in  no  great 
danger  of  isolation,  a  Roman,  Christian,  Moorish  and  Ara- 
gonese  city  in  turn,  it  came  at  last,  like  the  others,  to  be 
a  part  of  a  single  nation.  Through  all  these  modifying 
conditions,  however,  an  individual  type  was  formed  and 
maintained. 

Active  and  intelligent,  the  Aragonese  of  to-day  has  a 
love    of   letters  and    the    arts,  though    in    a  more   sober 

145 


146  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

and  restrained  manner  than  his  brother  of  Cordova  or 
Sevilla.  He  possesses  a  certain  good-natured  dignity. 
He  is  strong,  a  fighter,  a  drinker  of  pure  wine  and 
aguardiente,  a  tall,  lusty  fellow  of  the  mountains  and  the 
glaring,  bare,  broken  foot-hills  of  his  native  province. 

Typical  Spaniard,  in  the  Castillian  sense,  he  is  not. 
His  language  is  less  pure,  his  manners  harder,  his  jests 
more  coarse  and  direct.  He  is  less  subtle,  less  wrapped 
in  the  mantle  of  courtliness.  But  he  is  a  good,  healthy, 
whole-souled,  earnest  man,  and  you  can  trust  him.  He  has 
learned  a  little  more  than  the  Castillian,  and  a  good  deal 
less  than  the  Catalan,  about  commerce  ;  he  has  managed 
to  keep  within  his  walls  a  fading  essence  of  Arabic  tradi- 
tion ;  from  the  Basques  he  has  received  some  influences, 
from  the  French  others,  and  he  might  tell  you  that 
the  Castillian  and  he  were  once  brothers — who  had 
changed  however  not  a  little  since  that  good  old  time 
when  both  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  hunt  Moors  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end. 

And,  as  in  the  man,  so  in  the  works  of  his  hands. 
Who,  on  approaching  an  Aragonese  town,  will  fail  to 
note  the  peculiarity  of  its  architecture ;  these  delicate 
towers  which  rise,  and  which  seem  to  have  lost  the  sharp 
outlines  of  Roman  structures  while  retaining  somehow,  the 
suggestion  of  Roman  forms.  We  may  well  stop  before 
this  so-called  mudejar  architecture,  this  subtle  fusion  of  the 
severity  of  the  older  style  with  the  delicacy  of  moorish 
brick-tracery  and  tiles.  What  fine  results  these  architects 
obtained  by  a  few  changes  in  the  surface  of  a  brick  wall ; 
what  lightness  and  grace  in  the  peculiar  half-finished  out- 
line ! 

The  Church  has  set  her  seal  upon  Zaragoza.  Instinc- 
tively, as  we  drive  along  her  streets  we  look  for  the 


Zaragoza  147 

approach  of  processions.  An  odor  of  incense  seems  to 
lurk  in  dark  corners  ;  the  deep  swelling  of  voices  singing 
comes  from  the  doors  of  the  churches  we  pass.  A  funeral 
procession  stops  us,  the  great  torches  flaring  in  the  wind. 
There  are  a  thousand  suggestions  of  the  presence  of  the 
Church.  A  church  living  and  active,  not  surrounded 
by  depths  of  silence  in  deserted  streets  and  squares,  as  at 
Santiago.  Although  the  city  does  not  lack  for  history  not 
of  a  religious  nature,  certain  memories  are  forever  linked 
to  her  name  which  mark  her  as  a  sort  of  storm-centre  of 
spiritual  happenings.  Very  early  in  the  Christian  life  of 
the  peninsula  we  find  this  Roman  place  named  as  a  field 
for  the  preaching  of  the  new  belief,  and  it  was  here,  prob- 
ably, that  Prudentius  "  The  Horace  and  Virgil  of  the 
Christains"  was  born,  whose  hymns  were  to  mark  an 
epoch  in  Christian  poetry  of  the  fourth  and  fifth  centuries, 
and  whose  denunciation  of  a  vestal  at  a  gladiatorial  con- 
test might  be  well  read  in  some  palco  en  los  toros  these 
days.  "  I  will  struggle  against  heresy,  defend  the  Catholic 
faith,  annihilate  the  sacrifices  of  the  pagans,  destroy  thy 
gods,  O  Rome  !"  says  that  unhesitating  Spaniard.  His  is 
but  a  single  name  in  a  long  list — martyrs  among  them, 
whose  bones,  we  are  assured,  are  preserved  in  this  city  to 
this  day. 

But  all  attractions  considered,  the  traveller  will,  I 
suspect,  not  spend  very  much  time  in  Zaragoza,  not  more, 
probably,  at  best,  than  sufficient  to  see  the  monuments, 
the  river  and  the  people  who  pass  continually  along  her 
streets.  It  is  not  here  as  it  is  in  Madrid.  The  Coso  offers 
no  such  stream  of  different  types  as  does  the  Calle  de  Alcald. 
There  we  have  the  whole  Spanish  world  at  a  glance ;  here 
but  one  individual — the  Aragonese.  Variations  of  the 
type  are  interesting,  but  they  are  only  variations  after  all. 


148  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

The  architect  or  the  historian  will  alone  stop  long,  for  one 
finds  in  this  place  of  the  foot-hills,  far  from  the  softer  and 
more  refined  influences  of  Castile,  and  just  removed  from 
the  life  of  the  bustling  and  cosmopolitan  Catalan,  a  certain 
harshness.  Do  we  not  begin  to  feel  it  when  rumbling 
along  in  the  hotel  omnibus  from  the  station,  and  has  it 
not  grown  to  a  fixed  conviction  before  we  cross  the  stone 
bridge  over  the  Ebro  to  take  our  train  for  the  north  ? 
Is  there  great  regret  as  we  look  down  into  the  dull, 
muddy  current  below  us  for  the  last  time?  It  is  in  the 
air  this  feeling,  in  the  color  of  the  sky,  in  the  motion  of 
the  river;  the  strange,  florid  tiles  of  the  Pillar  and  elsewhere, 
reflect  it.  Even  the  lame,  savage  beasts  of  burden  seem 
to  be  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  place  and  anxious  to 
set  their  white,  gleaming  teeth  in  passing  shoulders.  In 
the  very  streets  it  is,  in  the  women's  sharp  voices  at  early 
dawn,  wailing  their  long  dispiriting,  half-arabic  cries  to  let 
you  know  that  they  are  selling  little  hot,  sugar-coated 
cakes  on  the  street  corners. 

Perhaps  the  enthusiastic  travellers  watching  every  de- 
tail, as  they  first  enter,  may  be  saved  this  shiver  at  the 
threshold.  There  is  quite  enough  in  the  mere  street 
names  of  a  Spanish  city  to  impress  its  peculiar  individu- 
ality and  excite  one's  curiosity.  No  modern  rectangular 
lanes,  sawed  out  and  numbered.  What  various  impres- 
sions one  gets  from  these  names.  Shall  we  go  indifferently 
by  the  street  of  Alfonso  the  Battle  Wager,  of  Argensola, 
of  the  Swan,  of  the  Chain,  of  Jaime  the  Conqueror,  of  the 
Dances,  of  the  Maidens,  of  the  Flowers,  of  Heroism,  of  In- 
dependence, of  Jesus,  of  Justice,  of  the  Wolf,  of  Mercy,  of 
the  Martyrs,  of  the  Moors,  of  the  Eleven  Corners,  of  the 
Fish,  the  Pen,  the  Dog,  the  Turk,  the  Cows,  the  Virgin 
and  the  Violin  ? 


Zaragoza 


149 


On  the  morning  after  my  own  first  arrival  I  can  recall 
with  what  eagerness  I  was  out  at  six,  bound  for  the  Cathe- 
dral of  the  Seo.  The  city 
possesses  two  cathedral 
churches  but  neither  one 
takes  rank  as  a  first-class 
building  of  its  kind  in  any 
way.  The  one  is  not 
beautiful,  in  spite  of  its 
tapering  tower  and  delicate 
brick-work,  nor  is  the  other 
less  frightful  for  all  that  it 
possesses  the  wonderful  col- 
umn of  the  Virgin.  "  The 
one  is  an  ancient  severe 
church,  raised  to  the  Sav- 
iour ;  the  other  a  modern 
theatrical  temple  dedicated 

to    the  Great    Diana,  for  now    we  are  in  the  Ephesus  of 
Spanish  Mariolatry." 

The  ecclesiologist  will  discover  much,  no  doubt,  to 
condemn  in  the  Cathedral  of  the  Seo.  He  will  find  no 
difficulty  in  criticising  the  irregularities  of  its  architectural 
treatment,  of  its  lighting  or  vaulting  or  its  great  breadth, 
of  its  pagan  details,  its  capitals,  its  gaudily  gilded  bosses. 
Street  has  already  pointed  the  way  for  this  criticism. 

But  if  we  can  forget  all  this,  and  by  a  no  great  effort  of 
imagination  bring  up  the  past  of  the  old  building  and  its 
associations,  we  shall  be  repaid  for  our  visit  nevertheless. 
Let  us  recall  for  a  moment  Luna,  the  antipope  who  built 
the  Cimborio  and  from  whose  hand  the  Church  received,  in 
the  first  years  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  famous  Gothic 
busts  of  Saints  Valero,  Vicente  and  Lorenzo,  which  were 


150  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


formerly  carried  in  processions,  but  are  now  only  placed 
on  the  high  altar  on  great  feasts.* 

o  o 

History  offers  nothing  so  calculated  to  attract  in  a 
broad  sense  as  the  story  of  those  characters  which  we  can 
fairly  say  made  a  good  fight.  It  does  not  so  much  matter 
what  the  fight  was  about,  with  whom  or  what ;  that  it  be  a 

o 

hard  and  unconditional  struggle  is  the  chief  requisite,  and 

the  interest  of  the  reader  is 
not  the  less  enlisted  when 
the  struggle  is  as  unavailing 
as  it  is  protracted,  and  to 
which  only  death  comes  as 
a  reward.  In  the  case  of 
Pedro  de  Luna,  known  as 
Pope  Benedict  XIII,  we 
have  a  tragedy  of  fruitless 
endeavor  and  unrelaxed  de- 
termination which  was  to  go 
unrewarded.  It  is  the  story 
of  a  striking  character  :  of  a 
man  who  rose  justly  to  a 
place  of  marked  eminence 
in  the  affairs  of  his  time, 
and  who  yet  saw  that  time  gradually  turn  its  back  upon 
him.  The  Church  rejected  him  ;  the  world  cast  him  off ; 

*  Around  the  base  of  the  bust  of  Saint  Valero,  within  the  sculptured  head  of  which 
the  authentic  skull  now  rests,  is  written  on  a  silver  plate  : 

"  Dominus  Benedictus  Papa  XIII,  prius  Vocatus  Petrus  deLuna,  Sanctae  Mariaein 
cosmedin  Diaconus  Cardinalis  dedit  hoc  Relicarium  Beati  Valorii  huic  Ecclesise  Caesar- 
augustanse  anno  Domini  MCCC  nonagesimo  Septimo  Pontificatus,  sui  anno  tertio  : 
inhibenclo  sub  pcenna  excomunicationis  quam  contra  facientes  ipso  facto  incurrant  ne 
quovis  modo  alienetur  cui  sententias  absolutionem  Sedi  Apostolicae  reservavit."  On 
the  bust  itself  is  : 

"  Hie  est  caput  Beati  Valerii  confessoris  A  Episcopi  huyus  Eclesiae  Caesar- 
augustanse." 


BENEDICT   XIII 


Zaragoza  1 5 1 

only  within  himself  was  found  the  confidence  and  de- 
termination to  maintain  his  position  as  spiritual  ruler  of 
Christendom. 

Pedro  de  Luna  was  a  native  of  Illueca  in  Aragon,  and 
in  his  youth  followed  arms  as  a  profession,  but,  soon  tir- 
ing of  this,  turned  his  attention  to  more  congenial  labors 
in  the  University  of  Montpellier,  where  he  filled  a  chair  of 
canonical  and  civil  law.  After  this  he  entered  the 
Church.  In  1307  Pope  Gregory  XI.  created  him  cardi- 
nal at  Avignon.  When  Robert  of  Geneva  died  there, 
after  a  pontificate,  during  which  was  presented  to  Europe 
the  farce  of  two  popes  hurling  anathemas  at  one  another, 
one  in  Avignon  and  another  at  Rome, — as  Wyclif  said, 
"  like  two  dogs  snarling  over  a  bone," — Cardinal  Luna  was 
unanimously  elected  to  fill  his  place.  He  was  recognized 
by  France,  Aragon,  Castile,  Savoy,  Lorraine  and  Scotland. 
The  satisfaction  of  the  Aragonese  knew  no  bounds. 

The  story  of  the  bitter  struggle  which  followed  and 
how  Benedict  was  soon  abandoned  by  most  of  his  friends 
and  returned  finally  to  Aragon,  is  well  known,  as  is  his 
obstinate  resistance  to  six  successive  popes  from  Boniface 
IX.,  to  Martin  V.,  never  for  one  moment  yielding  his  claim 
to  the  tiara.  Here  we  find  the  chief  quality  in  the  nature 
of  this  man  ;  it  has  been  called  by  one  of  his  historians 
"his  lamentable  tenacity."  The  dramatic  end  of  the  scene 
is  placed  on  a  little  rock  of  the  province  of  Castellon,  in 
the  Mediterranean — the  miniature  Gibraltar,  Peniscola. 

"  It  is  not  in  Constanza,"  said  Luna  in  reply  to  the 
embassy  sent  to  him  by  the  council  then  gathered  there, 
"but  in  Peniscola,  where  is  found  united  the  Catholic 
Church,  as  at  one  time  humanity  was  shut  up  in  the  Arc 
of  Noah."  In  the  end  he  was  left  to  himself  in  his  fast- 
ness on  the  Mediterranean  across  whose  waters  he  might 


i52  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

anathematize  in  imagination  his  rivals  at  Rome  through 
the  long,  tedious  years  of  his  unyielding  prison  life.  It 
was  on  the  23d  of  May,  1424,  in  his  ninetieth  year,  that  the 
sturdy  old  warrior  died  and  it  has  been  positively  asserted 
that  he  was  poisoned.  It  was  even  said  that  a  certain 
monk  Tomas  had  performed  the  deed  and  that  he  was 
afterwards  punished. 

It  is  probable  that  no  character  in  command  in  the 
religious  life  of  his  time,  possessed  such  force,  as  is  evi- 
denced in  the  unswerving  determination  of  Pedro  de 
Luna  and  it  is  possible  that,  had  he  been  able  to  main- 
tain his  position  as  head  of  a  united  Catholic  Church, 
some  of  the  chaotic  condition  and  degeneration  of  that 
Church  might  have  been  averted,  at  least  for  the 
time  being. 

There  is  a  tale,  well  known  in  Zaragoza,  which  we  must 
recall  when  we  first  stand  inside  the  door  of  the  Seo.  It 
is  the  story  of  that  Pedro  de  Arbues,*  called  Master  of 
Epila,  Inquisitor  of  Aragon,  who  in  the  year  1485,  while 
praying  before  the  altar,  met  his  death  at  the  hand  of 
assassins. 

At  that  time  there  lived  in  the  city  many  converted 
Jews  and  descendants  of  others  who  had  professed  that 
religion,  and  who,  from  their  power  and  wealth,  held 
some  of  the  highest  official  positions,  and  even  had 
strong  influence  at  the  Court  of  Ferdinand,  not  the  least 
among  them  being  Gabriel  Sanchez,  the  treasurer  of 
that  monarch. 

It  is  said  that  Sanchez,  replying  to  certain  relatives 
who  sought  his  protection  from  Zaragoza,  indicated  to 
them  the  advisability  of  causing  "  to  disappear  from  the 

*  See  Gascon  de  Gotor  ;  Zurita,  etc. 


Zaragoza  153 

world  "  a  certain  functionary  of  the  so-called  holy  office. 
The  insinuation  coming  from  such  a  quarter,  produced 
its  effect.  The  Zaragozan  converts,  or  Judaiaantes^  held 
secretly  several  conferences  and  decided  upon  the  murder 
of  Pedro  de  Arbues,  the  functionary  in  question,  com- 
municating this  resolve  to  like  converts  in  Calatayud, 
Barbastro  and  other  Aragonese  towns.  Although  the 
replies  of  these  are  unknown,  it  is  certain  that  a  meet- 
ing took  place  in  the  house  of  a  certain  Louis  Sanchez 
Santangel  who  then  lived  in  the  parish  of  San  Felippe  y 
Santiago.  There  were  present,  beside  the  last  men- 
tioned, the  lawyer  Jaime  Montesa,  Geronimo  Sanchez, 
Caspar  de  Santa  Cruz,  Juan  Sanchez,  Garcia  de  Moros 
and  various  others.  Certain  of  them  stated  that  pro- 
cesses had  been  begun  against  them  by  the  Inquisition, 
they  had  reported  it  to  their  friends  at  the  Court,  and 
that  the  only  method  by  which  they  might  free  them- 
selves from  the  consequences,  according  to  high  counsel, 
was  by  the  death  of  the  Inquisitor  of  Aragon,  in  the 
certainty  that  the  act  would  intimidate  the  functionary 
who  should  succeed  him. 

The  proposition  seems  to  have  met  with  instant  ap- 
proval. Secrecy  was  solemnly  sworn,  and  for  the  realiza- 
tion of  the  plan  it  was  decided  that  Sanchez,  Montesa 
and  Caspar  de  Santa  Cruz  should  collect  money  for  the 
payment  of  those  who  should  be  found  to  do  the  deed. 
It  was  later  asserted  that  part  of  the  sum  secured  went 
into  the  pockets  of  the  collectors  ! 

One  by  one  Montesa  brought  to  his  house  such  as  he 
thought  would  be  willing  to  contribute,  and  the  sum 
needed  was  soon  gathered.  The  whole  body  of  conspira- 
tors then  again  met.  A  heated  discussion  took  place  dur- 
ing which  Garcia  de  Moros  inflamed  his  audience  to  the 

o 


154  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

point  of  action  and  it  was  unanimously  decided  that  the 
moment  for  the  selection  of  the  instruments  of  the  deed 
had  arrived.  For  this  work  Montesa  and  Pedro  Sanchez 
were  delegated. 

Repeated  conferences  were  now  held  between  this 
committee  and  a  certain  tanner,  Juan  Sperandeu,  and  a 
man  named  Matthew  Ram,  ready  to  undertake  anything 
for  a  price.  With  these  were  associated  for  the  crime 
Juan  de  Abadia,  urged  on  by  Luis  Sanchez  Santangel, 
who  promised  him  money  and  protection,  Vidal  Durango,* 
a  French  servant  of  Sperandeu,  Tristan,  a  follower  of 
Matthew  Ram,  and  three  others  whose  names  are  not 
known. 

Four  days  before  that  of  the  accomplishment  of  the 
deed,  all  those  who  had  originally  met  at  the  house  of 
Luis  Sanchez  Santangel  and  some  others  were  cited  to 
meet  after  vespers  in  the  sanctuary  of  the  Portillo.  Sev- 
eral of  them  again  met  on  the  following  day.  In  both  of 
these  conferences  certain  details  were  settled  and  assist- 
ance was  assured  to  the  perpetrators  of  the  deed. 

It  now  remained  but  to  fix  the  day  for  the  execution 
of  the  plan.  In  a  conference  held  between  Sanchez, 
Santa  Cruz  and  Garcia  de  Moros,  on  the  thirteenth  of 
September,  in  the  house  of  Micer  Montesa,  the  following 
night  was  settled  upon,  and  between  eleven  and  twelve  of 
the  fourteenth,  Juan  de  Sperandeu  set  out  for  the  house 
of  Juan  Abadia  who  had  gone  to  bed.  He  made  him  get 
up,  dress  and  arm  himself,  and  together  they  went  to  the 
house  of  Sperandeu,  where  they  found  assembled  Matthew 
Ram,  Vidal  Durango,  Tristan  and  three  others,  their 
faces  covered  with  masks.  Together  they  now  repaired 
to  the  Coso  and  entered  by  the  Trenque,  crossing  the 

*  Or  Duranso. 


Zaragoza  155 

Boticas  Hondas  in  order  to  pass  before  the  house  of  the 
governor  and  finally  through  the  Plaza  of  La  Seo,  they 
passed  into  the  cathedral  of  the  same  name,  by  the  door 
leading  from  the  street  of  the  Pabostria,  that  being  open, 
owing  to  the  beginning  of  matins  sharply  at  twelve  o'clock. 

Matthew  Ram,  Sperandeu,  Vidal  Durango  and  Tris- 
tan entered  the  church  ;  Abadia  remained  at  the  door  on 
watch.  After  some  time  the  latter,  finding  that  they  were 
long  in  reappearing,  also  entered  and  beheld  the  Inquisi- 
tor of  Aragon  in  the  priestly  garb,  kneeling  in  fervent 
prayer  near  the  column,  by  which  was  the  pulpit  wherein 
it  was  his  custom  to  preach  ;  a  short  distance  behind  him 
he  saw  the  assassins.  At  this  moment  the  voices  of  the 
choir  rang  solemnly  through  the  church.  Abadia  ap- 
proached Vidal  Durango  and  in  a  low,  earnest  voice  said  : 
"  Strike  him,  traitor,  that 's  he."  Thus  urged,  the  other 
did  so,  inflicting  a  severe  wound  with  his  sword,  piercing 
the  throat.  The  victim  rose  staggeringly  to  his  feet, 
whereupon  Sperandeu  threw  himself  upon  him  and 
stabbed  him  and  he  fell  to  the  pavement.  The  murderers 
fled. 

At  the  noise  and  hurrying  the  clergy  left  the  choir 
and  came  upon  the  Master  of  Epila,  bathed  in  his  own 
blood.  He  was  taken  to  his  home  where  two  famous 
surgeons  at  first  sight  declared  his  wounds  necessarily 
fatal.  Between  one  and  two,  on  the  morning  of  the  day 
of  the  1 7th,  he  died. 

The  crime  perpetrated,  Micer  Montesa,  Luis  Sanchez 
Santangel,  Caspar  de  Santa  Cruz,  Pedro  Sanchez  and 
others  secretly  gave  themselves  up  to  the  greatest  rejoic- 
ing, relying  upon  the  promises  of  impunity  which  had 
been  made  to  them  from  high  quarters. 

Punishment,    however,    soon    followed.      Arbues   was 


156  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

succeeded  by  Pedro  de  Monte  Rubio,  and  theperpetraters 
of  the  crime  were  soon  sought  out.  Pedro  Sanchez  was 
burned  in  effigy  ;  Montesa,  Garcia  de  Moros  and  Alonso 
Sanchez  were  burned.  Santangel  was  condemned  to  be 
decapitated  and  his  body  burned.  Francisco  cle  Santa 
Fe  committed  suicide  in  the  Castle  of  Aljaferia  where  he 
was  confined.  Sperandeu,  Ram  and  Durango  were 
drawn  and  quartered  and  burned ;  Tristan  was  burned  in 
effigy,  having  escaped  from  Aragonese  territory.  Juan 
Abadia  suffocated  himself  in  the  castle  with  the  aid  of  a 
glass  lamp. 

One  must  not  leave  the  Seo  with  its  traditions  until  he 
has  walked  slowly  around  it  and  studied,  step  by  step,  the 
details  of  its  carving  and  altars.  I  recall  now  how  I  hur- 
ried through  this  church  in  my  eagerness  to  reach  the 
Pilar  which  I  had  seen  rising  in  its  grandeur  not  far  away 
— and  how  I  came  back  here  again  after  I  had  been  chilled 
by  the  grave  barrenness  of  that  monster. 

The  girls  by  the  fountain  were  drawing  water  as  I 
passed.  I  could  hear  the  click  and  rattle  of  the  long  tin 
tubes  which  they  reached  up  to  the  falling  stream  to  direct 
it  into  their  jars.  A  pretty  sight,  which  one  may  see  all 
over  Northern  Spain,  most  gracefully  picturesque,  perhaps, 
in  Lugo,  where  the  ancient  walls  seem  to  have  housed  and 
kept  from  contamination  more  of  the  old  spirit  than  else- 
where. 

Attention  has  been  called  to  the  fact  that  Zaragoza 
until  1845  possessed  no  regular  public  fountain.*  It  was 
on  the  i4th  of  October,  1833,  that  the  corner-stone  of  the 
one  then  known  by  the  name  of  Isabel  II  was  laid  in  the 
present  Paseo  de  Santa  Engracia  where  it  still  stands, 
though  it  is  now  called  the  Fountain  of  Neptune.  An  in- 

*  Madoz. 


Zaragoza 


scription  marks  the  place  as  stained  with  the  blood  of 
martyrs. 

The  Ebro  is  muddy  and  yellow  and  has  more  the  look 
of  a  river  than 
streams  usual- 
ly seen  be- 
tween Spanish 
banks.  It  is 
always  a  fine 
river  after 
rain,  and  from 
Tortosa  all 
along  up  its 
sprawling  yel- 
low course 
until  beyond 
Logrono,  the 
traveller  will 

get  many  a  fine  view.  Well  off  the  line  of  travel  is  the 
valley  of  this  stream  below  Zaragoza,  and  many  a  hard 
day's  ride  may  one  have  down  its  course  from  Caspe  to 
the  sea. 

The  heavy  boats,  with  which  the  soldiers  practise,  are 
drawn  high  up  out  of  harm's  way,  opposite  the  gaudy 
dome  of  the  Pilar  Cathedral.  Before  the  door  of  this 
last  I  soon  found  myself  standing,  having  passed  the 
women  selling  long  strips  of  pastry  by  the  Lonja,  which 
is  one  of  the  sights  of  the  city  with  its  carved  heads  and 
over-hanging  roof. 

Here,  then,  is  the  wonderful  "  Pilar,"  which  has  made 
the  present  and  past  religious  reputation  of  Zaragoza  ;  one 
of  the  most  important  relics  of  the  Church  of  Spain.  Not 
only  is  it  intimately  connected  with  that  great  Spanish 


THE    EBRO   AT    LOGRONO 


158  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

peripatetic,  Saint  James  himself,  who  was  its  discoverer, 
and  by  the  actual  existence  of  whose  remains  at  Santiago 
it  is  so  easy  to  prove  the  truth  of  the  whole  story,  but  the 
Virgin  herself  saw  fit  to  render  this  stone  a  thing  of  su- 
preme holiness  by  the  touch  of  her  divine  feet ! 

Saint  James,  it  appears,  first  sought  the  Virgin  and 
kissing  her  hand,  prayed  that  he  be  allowed  to  preach  the 
faith  of  her  Son.  She  responded  by  pointing  out  the  prof- 
itable field  for  conversion  in  Spain  and  promised  to  indicate 
to  him  later  where  he  might  build  a  church  in  her  memory. 

Forthwith  Saint  James,  setting  out  from  Jerusalem,  ar- 
rived in  Spain  and,  after  he  had  been  to  the  North,  in  the 
Asturias  (Isturias),  to  the  city  of  Oviedo  (where  he  made 
a  convert),  to  Galicia  and  to  Castile,  he  finally  reached 
that  part  of  Spain  known  as  Aragon  and  its  capital  city  of 
Zaragoza.  (  Casar-augustana  civitas  ad  Ibcri  fluvii  ripam?) 
All  of  which  is  told  in  detail  in  the  Historia  Apparitionis 
Deiparce  supra  columnam,  beatojacobo  apud  Ceesar-augustam 
prczdicante. 

It  was  here  that  the  Virgin  made  good  her  promise  of 
direction  as  to  the  church  which  should  be  erected  in  her 
honor.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  Saint — he  had 
passed  a  very  fatiguing  day  with  his  converts — had  the 
ineffable  pleasure  of  hearing  the  voices  of  angels  singing 
Ave  Maria  Gratia  Plena,  and  soon  after  beheld  the  Virgin 
herself  seated  in  mid-air  upon  the  famous  marble  column,  as 
is  fully  described  by  historians  and  pictured  in  prints  of  the 
scene.*  At  each  hand  stood  a  choir  of  a  thousand  angels. 
Saint  James  fell  upon  his  knees  while  the  mission  of  his 
divine  mistress  was  made  clear  to  him,  and  he  was  in- 

*Ecce,  inquit,  Jacobe  fill,  locus  signatus,  meoque  honori  deputatus,  in  quo  in  met 
•memoriam  tua  industria  mea  ecclesia  construator  :  conspice  quinimo  pilare  hoc,  in  quo 
sedco :  nam  Filius  meus,  Magister  tuus,  per  manus  angelorum  illud  transmisit 
ex  alto,  circa  cujus  situm  capelltz  altare  locabis.  (Esp.  Sag.,  30,  428.) 


Zaragoza  159 

structed  as  to  the  building  of  the  church  in  her  honor  and 
for  the  preservation  of  the  sacred  column  which  had  been 
sent  direct  from  heaven. 

And  so,  it  is  related  and  believed,  the  Saint  constructed 
his  church  and  received  and  guarded  the  sacred  relic 
within  it  and,  after  all  was  done,  he  went  out  of  Spain 
and  returned  to  Judea,  whence  his  body  was  afterwards 
brought  back  by  his  faithful  followers  and  taken  to  its 
last  resting-place  in  Galicia. 

But  the  sanctified  seat  of  the  Virgin  remains  to  this  day 
and  is  one  of  the  chief  sources  of  income  to  the  marble- 
workers  and  silversmiths  of  the  old  town.  You  may  go 
behind  the  altar  and  kiss  it  through  an  opening  if  you  are 
a  good  Catholic.  Thousands  have  made  the  pilgrimage, 
which  is  each  year  celebrated  with  great  pomp  on  the 
twelfth  day  of  October. 

The  church  is  gigantic  and  ugly.  A  heavy  structure, 
whose  roof  exteriorly  is  decorated  with  flaring  tiles  ;  the 
cold,  classically-grand  interior  is  redeemed  only  by  the 
wonderful  Gothic  altar,  the  work  of  Damian  Forment, 
whose  great  carving  in  alabaster  may  be  seen  in  Huesca. 

There  was  one  thing  especially  well  worth  visiting  in 
Zaragoza  on  my  first  visit ;  the  beautiful,  leaning  New 
Tower,  La  Torre  Nueva,  recalling  Pisa.  They  were 
taking  it  down  at  the  time  and  I  made  the  ascent  of  half 
a  dozen  buildings  to  get  a  farewell  impression  of  it  from 
every  side.  Later  I  distinctly  remember  the  sense  of 
regret  when,  forgetting  the  fact  of  its  demolition,  I  came 
to  the  silent  plaza  where  it  had  stood  and  found  the  pave- 
ment laid  over  what  had  been  its  foundations.  The 
vanishing  of  a  monument  like  this  has  something  so 
humanly  sad  in  it  that  it  makes  an  impression  never  to  be 
lost.  No  doubt  the  little  square  of  San  Filipe  where  it 


160  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


stood  so  nearly  four  hundred  years  will  soon  establish  a 
new  individuality  of  its  own,  in  which  the  image  of  the 
grand  old  land-mark  will  be  but  a  ghostly  memory. 

How  much  might  be  writ- 
ten of  the  tower  in  the  Span- 
ish landscape !  Turn  where 
we  will,  it  is  ever  present. 
Are  we  trudging  across  some 
field  with  which  the  name  of 
Trajan  or  Hannibal  is  linked, 
let  us  but  raise  our  eyes  and 
there,  just  ahead,  it  stands 
against  the  blue  cloudless  sky. 
From  Trujillo  to  Tarragona 
we  meet  Roman  towers  ;  one 
bears  the  name  of  some  great 
general  or  emperor  in  every 
province.  Ruins  often,  mere 
fragments  of  suggestive  out- 
line, to  be  sure,  but  how  clearly  have  they  given  a  form  to 
those  severe  and  grave  buildings  which  have  followed 
them  ! 

The  landscape  of  the  Middle  Ages  has  as  little  escaped. 
See  the  towers  of  these  crenelated  fortresses,  these  churches 
of  fair  Gothic,  these  cathedrals  of  Castile  and  overall  Spain, 
these  palace  forts  of  La  Mota  or  Segovia.  Everywhere 
the  tower  is  a  marked  outline  against  the  horizon. 

The  grass  is  growing  over  a  thousand  that  have 
vanished  and  left  no  trace,  as  this  Torre  Nueva  has  van- 
ished. Some  have  met  the  fate  of  this — Calatayud  once 
possessed  a  leaning  tower — others  have  sunk  slowly  down 
and  become  convenient  quarries  for  later  builders,  and  not 
a  few  were  re-created  and  served  to  shelter  some  French 


TOWER   OF  TRUJILLO 


«*      -ry. 

it  be   writ- 
r  in  the  Span- 
Turn    where 
r   present. 
ss  some 
of 


\  an- 

ud  once 
ly  down 

builders,  and  not 
lier  some  French 


Zaragoza  161 

garrison  of  Napoleon  from  the  too  eager  enemy  whom  they 
could  never  quite  conquer. 

The  Torre  Nueva  was  built  in  answer  to  a  desire  on 
the  part  of  the  people  of  Zaragoza  to  have  a  lofty  clock- 
tower  from  which  the  hour  might  be  read  or  sounded  in 
every  part  of  the  city.  The  decision  to  build  it  was  reached 
in  1504,  and  the  question  was  then  laid  before  the  King, 
who  gave  his  consent  to  the  plan  and  added  his  aid.  It 
was  decided  to  put  the  Master,  Gabriel  Gombao,  in  charge 
of  the  work,  and  with  him  were  associated  Juan  de  Sarinena, 
a  Jew  named  Ince  de  Gali,  and  the  Moors  Ezmel  Ballabar 
and  Master  Monferriz. 

What  a  light  is  thrown  upon  the  peculiarities  of  the 
strange  architecture  of  these  Aragonese  buildings  when  we 
read  the  names  of  the  men  who  worked  upon  them  !  What 
influences  but  those  of  Moor  and  Jew  and  Christian  could 
have  produced  such  results  as  these  ?  This  tall,  tapering 
frost-work  pile  had  in  it  the  strength  of  the  iron-armed 
men  of  the  North  combined  with  the  subtile  art  and  delicacy 
of  the  Arab. 

In  fifteen  months  the  great  tower  arose  in  the  little 
plaza,  and  in  1512  the  two  great  bells,  which  had  been  cast 
by  Jaime  Ferrer  of  Lerida  sounded  the  hours  of  day  or 
night  to  the  city  below  them.  The  building  was  300  feet 
in  height  and  45  in  diameter ;  it  was  octagonal  in  plan  at 
the  base,  which  form  was  modified,  however,  as  the  struc- 
ture rose  and  a  star-shaped  plan  broke  the  monotony. 
Again  and  again  the  form  changed  as  the  work  went  on, 
in  the  effort  to  give  lightness  and  grace,  and  well  did  the 
fanciful  brick-work  answer  the  aims  of  the  architects  labor- 
ing upon  it. 

How  many  people  are  kept  employed  here  at  religious 


1 62  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

art !  Shops  on  every  hand  are  devoted  solely  to  the  manu- 
facture of  miniature  representations  of  the  Holy  Virgin  on 
her  Pillar,  and  the  windows  are  filled  with  long  lines  of 
them  in  marble,  alabaster  and  silver.  Demetrius  and  the 
silversmiths  who  "  made  silver  shrines  for  Diana,"  and 
"  brought  no  small  gain  unto  the  craftsmen,"  find  worthy 
descendants  in  the  city  of  Caesarea  Augusta. 

The  best  view  of  Zaragoza  is  from  the  bridge.  Stand- 
ing on  the  great  stone-arched,  square  and  octagon-towered 
line  of  masonry,  with  the  muddy,  shallow,  hissing  Ebro 
rushing  below,  the  city  panorama  is  spread  out  in  front 
with  the  cathedrals  on  either  hand,  the  towers  of  La  Mag- 
dalena  of  San  Pablo,  of  San  Gil  and  the  rest,  rising  in  the 
background.  It  is  most  striking.  Along  the  river,  high 
walls  of  masonry  stretch  away  to  the  bend,  where  they  are 
sunk  and  disappear  in  the  tree-bordered  banks.  There  are 
traces  of  Roman  walls  by  the  river  too,  if  you  care  to 
search  ;  walls  erected  twenty-three  years  B.C.  The  gray, 
desolate  country  rises  in  rolling  bareness  beyond,  and 
reaches  out  to  the  great  barrier  wall  of  the  North.  From 
this  vantage-ground,  the  picture  is,  perhaps,  most  impressive 
on  one  of  those  luminous,  star-lit  Spanish  nights,  when  the 
deep  intensity  of  the  unclouded  sky  forms  the  silent,  mys- 
terious back-ground  familiar  in  the  East.  The  lap  of  the 
water  comes  weirdly  from  below,  and  its  steady  sobbing 
rush  past  and  into  the  dark  has  a  strange  whisper.  Far 
away,  it  catches  a  faint,  lustrous  gleam  and  shimmers 
across  the  shallows  between  the  little  pebbly  island  facing 
the  end  of  the  city  river-wall,  which  is  there  broken  and 
has  fallen  in  great  heaped-up  fragments  from  the  roadway 
edge.  The  Seo  tower  rises  then  with  all  the  impressive- 
ness  of  its  tapering  symmetry,  and  even  the  great  "  Pilar," 
etched  out  in  bolder  masses,  loses  its  tinsel  cheapness  in 


Zaragoza 


163 


the  outlined  grandeur  of  its  high,  uplifted  domes  and  pin- 
nacles, silent  in  strength  of  vastness  against  the  blue. 

Nothing  disturbs.  The  distant  cry  of  the  sereno  floats 
faintly,  or  from  far  off  comes  the  echo  of  the  quick  blows 
of  his  staff  on  the  stone  pavement.  At  long  intervals  one 
hears  the  tread  of  an  approaching  person,  beginning  dis- 
tantly, drawing  nearer,  passing  and  dying  away.  The 
individual  casts  at  one  a  side-glance,  half-inquiring,  half- 
suspicious,  though,  in  these  days  of  the  Guardia  Civil,  his 
hand  may  have  lost  somewhat  of  its  old  instinctive  grasp 
for  pistol  or  knife. 


XI 


HUESCA— JACA 

IT  was  seven  of  a  clear  morning  when  we  started  up  the 
valley  of  the  low,  sandy  and  muddy  Gallego.      The 
fact  that  we  were  rapidly  leaving  the  influence   of  the 

capital,  as  far  as  dress  at 
least  was  concerned,  was 
soon  evident.  Peasants  on 
the  train  passing  us  from 
Lerida  now  wore  a  different 
costume  from  those  of 
Aragon,  and  we  were  soon 
to  see  the  peculiar  dress 
of  the  Pyrenees.  Leaving 
the  river  at  Zuera,  by  9.30 
the  foot  ranges  came  in 
sight  and  fifteen  minutes 
later  we  stopped  at  Hu- 
esca. 

The   Province    of    Hu- 
esca  offers  a  somewhat  new 
PEASANTS  OF  LERIDA  phase    of    Spanish    life    to 

the  traveller.      It  has  had 

the  happy  fate  of  escaping  the  tourist,  and,  although  less 
rich  than  other  provinces  in  the  rare  and  wonderful  of  art, 

i&t 


i65 


THE   CATHEDRAL  OF    HUESCA 


Huesca — Jaca  167 

is  yet  famous  for  its  hardy,  law-making  people  and  for  a 
few  solid  and  severe  monuments.  This  barren  mountain 
country  preserves  a  primitive  people,  in  primitive  towns, 
and  much  of  costume  and  native  peculiarity  remains,  which 
is  going,  or  has  already  gone,  from  more  travelled  districts. 
fn  Barbastro,  Banabarre,  Boltana,  Fraga,  Jaca,  Sarifiena 
and  a  dozen  other  places  there  is  a  wealth  of  types  and 
traditions. 

Spain,  divided  into  Departments  in  1809,  was  cut  up 
into  Provinces  in  1833.  Under  the  Department  system, 
Huesca  was  capital  of  that  of  Ebro  y  Cinca.  She  now 
has  363  Ayuntamientos,  an  area  of  424  square  leagues, 
and  a  population  of  263,230.  The  wines  are  excellent. 
Oil,  fruit  and  vegetables  are  abundant,  and  the  sportsman 
may  have  partridges  and  rabbits  to  his  heart's  content  or, 
if  he  choose  to  work  hard  and  long,  may  find  an  occa- 
sional bear  in  the  mountains,  or,  I  am  told,  even  wolves, 
foxes,  mountain-cats,  wild-boars,  hedge-hogs  or  deer. 

The  king  of  these  mountains  is  the  great  eagle,  but 
you  must  go  high  up  among  his  fastnesses  to  have  a  shot 
at  him.  Like  all  wild  creatures  in  Spain,  he  is  wary  and 
will  not  wait  your  coming.  His  brothers,  the  vulture 
and  the  hawk,  are  seen  less  in  this  district  than  elsewhere, 
more  to  the  south. 

The  country  continues  barren.  Trees  are  marked 
rarities  except  away  from  the  larger  places.  Near  the 
towns  the  demand  for  wood  cuts  everything  down  for 
miles  around.  Where  wood  is  so  expensive,  it  is  strange 
that  it  is  not  more  grown  as  an  article  of  trade,  and 
stranger  still  that  the  fact  of  its  diminution  is  not  more 
clearly  realized  by  the  natives.  One  recalls  those  vast 
forests  in  Luxemburg  which  might  well  be  reproduced  in 
Spain.  Oak,  hemlock,  box,  bitter-sweet  and  juniper  are 


1 68  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


common,  and  not  a  few  medicinal  herbs,  but  all  are  fast 
thinning  before  the  increased  demand,  and  on  every  high- 
road one  meets  the  heavily  laden  burros  driven  up  to 
town  with  the  precious  spoil  of  the  hills. 

Huesca  is  an  ancient  city  of  over  ten  thousand  inhabit- 
ants. The  Templars  took  up  their  abode  here  after  1143 
through  the  donation  of  Count  Berenger  of  Barcelona. 
The  seal  of  the  order,  found  impressed  in  wax  at  the  end 
of  the  past  century,  was  affixed  to  a  document  dated  1204. 
Pedro  II.  appears  to  have  been  the  first  king  to  employ 
seals  in  Aragon,  the  sign  only  having  been  used  previous 
to  his  time.  The  abbreviated  legend  on  this  of  the  Tem- 
plars is  intended  to  express  :  Sigillum  Domus  Templi  de 
Osca. 

But  the  end  of  the  Templars 
arrived  in  1312-1317,  when  they 
were  blotted  out  by  papal  bull, 
and  an  edict  in  relation  to  this 
was  discovered  in  the  archives  at 
Ager  by  Villanueva  and  pub- 
lished by  him  in  his  Literary 
Expedition. 

It  is  but  a  short  walk  to  the 
height  on  which  stands  the 
church  of  St.  George,  whence  one  has  a  splendid  view  of 
the  town  lying  on  its  little  point  of  rising  ground  in  the 
valley.  The  houses  are  not  covered  with  the  cheerful  red 
tiles  of  other  places,  but  have  a  yellowish,  muddy  look, 
and  the  white-washed  window-frames  are  suggestive  of 
eyes.  In  the  midst  stands  the  cathedral,  sharp-cut  against 
the  abrupt  hills  of  the  Sierra  de  Guara.  Beyond,  the 
ruined  castle  of  Monte  Aragon,  and  still  beyond,  the  hazy 
outlines  of  other  broken  ranges.  To  the  north  is  seen  a 


Huesca — Jaca  169 

giant  cleft  through  the  rocky  wall,  called  the  Salto  de  Rol- 
dan — tradition  stretching  its  hand  far  back  to  the  days  of 
Roland. 

Above  the  narrow  break,  steel-blue  clouds  hover  omin- 
ously and  promise  rain.  In  splendid  contrast  is  this 
threatening  north  of  mountain  and  dark,  to  that  soft 
south  lying  behind  us,  where  great  masses  of  white,  fleecy 
cloud  roll  over  a  clear,  blue  sky,  and  the  country  dies  off 
into  uneventful  mysterious  haze.  Bees  are  swarming  from 
a  tiny  hole  in  the  wall  of  the  brick  church  behind  me. 
Their  faint,  warm,  summery  buzz  mingles  with  the  distant 
barking  of  a  dog,  the  tinkle  of  a  goat  bell, — there  are  no 
other  sounds  for  the  lazy  air  to  bear  up  the  hillside  to  me. 
On  the  other  hand,  toward  the  northwest,  rises  a  bold 
peak,  the  light  catching  upon  it  fantastically. 

Slowly  the  clouds  close  in  about  the  sun.  At  last  only 
one  broad  ray  of  light  is  left,  plunging  boldly  down  through 
the  heavy  masses,  just  wide  enough  to  strike  broadly  over 
the  town  and  cover  it  with  an  intense  light,  while  all  be- 
yond it  is  in  semi-obscurity.  For  a  few  moments  it  forms 
an  exquisite  picture.  Then  slowly  the  shadow  falls  more 
and  more  over  the  edge  of  the  mass  of  buildings,  blotting 
them  into  dun-colored  unobtrusiveness,  and  inch  by  inch 
creeps  up  towards  the  centre  and  the  cathedral.  There  it 
stops  lingeringly,  and  gradually  every  other  portion  in  the 
town  becomes  dark.  Then  the  great  building  too,  fades,  and 
a  swift  sparkling  and  flashing  on  the  spire  is  the  last  of  it. 

The  buzzing  of  the  bees  grows  intense  behind  me. 
The  windows  stare  wide  open.  They  are  empty  sockets 
now,  glaring  from  what  almost  seems  a  vast  heap  of  skulls 
piled  one  above  another  in  hopeless  confusion.  Butter- 
flies and  great  black  flies  are  flitting  and  darting  in  the 
weird,  uncertain  light. 


1 70  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

The  rain  is  coming  soon.  A  black,  rolling  heap  of 
cloud,  formed  like  a  human  head,  with  a  great  white  tongue 
lolled  out,  has  pushed  itself  out  from  the  mountain  behind 
and  stretches  its  open  mouth  down  towards  the  town  where, 
as  though  in  alarm,  the  bell  of  the  church  begins  tolling 
tremulously. 

An  old  man,  who  seems  to  be  in  charge  of  the  place, 
looms  weirdly  from  nowhere,  and  invites  me  into  the  church 
with  a  hollow,  wheezy  voice.  An  old  woman,  one  more 
creature  of  the  night,  with  straggling  hair  and  broom  at 
present  arms,  suddenly  stands  eyeing  me  from  a  shadowed 
doorway,  while  a  strange,  dissipated  cat,  with  a  red  nose, 
suggesting  chronic  influenza  or  the  gin-bottle,  follows  the 
limping  master  with  plaintive  mews  and  climbs  the  wall  at 
languid  bounds  before  him.  Two  minutes  satisfy  my  curi- 
osity as  to  the  interior  to  which  I  am  invited,  and  a  very 
hospitable  offer  of  food  and  shelter  from  the  old  man  I  am 
forced  to  decline,  which,  however,  is  not  taken  in  bad  part. 
I  manage  to  get  back  to  the  hotel  just  as  it  begins  to  pour 
straight  down  and  hiss  on  the  stones. 

Opposite  is  a  printer's  shop  from  which  a  weekly  news- 
paper is  issued,  and  an  annual,  half-peseta  guide  of  the 
town.  The  printing-press  of  this  establishment  is  to  a 
degree  simple.  It  is  run  after  the  ancient  method — man 
power — and  the  old  fellow  who  keeps  industriously  turn- 
ing the  wheel  talks  on  willingly  enough  in  answer  to  ques- 
tions, while  his  boy,  who  removes  the  sheets  here  and  folds 
others  there,  stares  at  us  in  wonder.  There  are  two  com- 
positors, to  judge  by  the  litter,  but  only  one  is  mechanic- 
ally bending  towards  the  light,  which  to-day  is  feeble  and 
at  brightest  moments  cannot  be  more  than  tolerable. 
There  is  much  dirt  on  the  floor,  much  waste  paper  about, 
and  the  place  is  redolent  of  tobacco,  local  tradition  and 


Huesca — Jaca 


171 


the  proud  memory  of  days  when  once  four  dailies  flour- 
ished. True,  that  was  in  war  times.  One  may  well  im- 
agine that  only  war  news  could  wring  excitement  from  these 
dull  hills. 

At  three,  it  clears,  and  in  front  of  the  church  I  pick  up 
a  small  boy  of  religious  mind,  as  guide,  all  but  losing  him, 
however,  at  the  very  first,  by  refusing  holy  water  on  enter- 
ing the  church.  It  takes  a  peseta  to  destroy  his  religious 
convictions,  a  high  local  price. 

The  cloisters  are  interesting  and  behind  the  high  altar 
there  is  a  piece  of  Gothic  work  recently  discovered  and 
long  covered  by  a  picture.  The  picture  itself  is  shown  in 
the  sacristy  where  four  or  five  priests  are  gathered  about 
a  long  table. 

To  the  cathedral — a  short,  splashy  walk  through  misty 
rain.  I  remember  now  nothing  but  the  little  boy  tramp- 
ing along  with  down- 
turned  hat-brim  in 
sturdy  disregard  of  the 
wet — truly  unlike  his 
prototypes  of  Valencia 
and  Granada.  Legiti- 
mate descendant  he 
might  be  of  Sertorius, 
in  this  once  chief  city 
of  that  enemy  of 
Rome. 

The  present  Ca- 
thedral of  Huesca 
stands  on  the  site  of  a 
more  ancient  Gothic 

,  ,  ,    .  ACOLYTES  OF   THE   CATHEDRAL   OF    HUESCA 

church  converted  into 

a  mosque  by  the  Arabs  and  made  Christian  again  by  Pedro 


1 72  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

I.  who  conquered  the  city  in  1096.  The  solemn  purifica- 
tion of  the  church  took  place  on  the  i2th  of  December  of 
that  year,  after  which,  until  1 300,  it  saw  no  changes.  The 
bishop  Adamaro  then  finding  the  edifice  in  a  condition  of 
partial  ruin  determined  to  undertake  the  construction  of  a 
new  one.  His  resources  for  the  work  were  meagre  and  it 

o 

was  not  until  15 1 5  that  the  present  structure  was  completed, 
through  the  aid  of  Don  Juan  of  Aragon  and  Navarre,  natu- 
ral son  of  Carlos  of  Viana,  who  donated  1500  golden  florins 
to  the  work.  Its  architect  was  a  Vizcaino,  Juan  de  Olotzaga. 
The  church  has  been  much  described.  On  the  right  rises 
the  not  uncommon  octagon  clock-tower  of  Aragon.  The 
building  taken  as  a  whole  is  dignified,  strong  and  severe. 

The  great  work  of  art  of  this  cathedral  is  the  rctablo, 
carved  in  alabaster,  by  Damian  Forment,  a  work  possess- 
ing a  peculiar  personal  interest  in  the  two  medallions 
representing  the  sculptor  and  his  wife.  It  was  begun  on 
the  loth  of  September,  1520,  as  is  stated  in  the  contract 
made  by  the  bishop,  Don  Juan  of  Aragon  and  Navarre, 
with  Damian  Forment,  "  Excellent  Sculptor,  by  birth  a 
Valencian."  The  famous  artist  was  also  the  maker  of  the 
remarkable  retablo  of  the  Church  of  our  Lady  of  the  Pilar 
at  Zaragoza.  Thirteen  years — and  the  time  seems  little 
enough — were  employed  in  this  work,  and  the  patience 
with  which  the  delicate  details  have  been  wrought  out,  has 
produced  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of  altar-carving  in  Spain. 
110,000  sucldos  was  the  price  received  by  the  sculptor,  a 
sum  considered  rather  high  at  the  time. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  Museo  of  pictures  I  almost  over- 
ran a  little  deformed  wretch  with  twisted  hands  and  feet, 
who  promptly  offered  himself  as  guide.  "  I  will  show  you, 
I  will  show  you/'  he  kept  repeating,  stumbling  along  on 
his  distorted  ankles,  his  feet  flopping  over  horribly  at  each 


Huesca — Jaca  173 

step  and  his  great  nervous,  flapping  arms  hanging  list- 
lessly, or  cast  out  abruptly  to  steady  himself. 

At  the  Museo  he  hunted  up  an  old  man  as  wretched,  if 
not  as  deformed,  as  himself,  and  the  two  struggled  upstairs 
together,  where  they  were  joined  by  an  ancient  dame,  the 
wife  of  the  antique  keeper,  and  all  three  miserables  to- 
gether, by  dint  of  much  united  manipulating,  key  turning, 
twisting,  groans  and  sighs,  managed  to  open  the  mysteri- 
ous lock  of  a  mysterious  door,  whereupon  with  much  cere- 
mony I  was  invited  to  enter  the  "  Great  Gallery." 

I  entered  the  Great  Gallery  and  found  myself  in  Egyp- 
tian darkness.  Here  and  there,  through  the  long  closed 
shutters,  a  ray  of  light,  more  intrepidly  daring  than  the 
rest,  pushed  its  way  in,  making  a  faint  sparkle  on  the 
faded  gilt  of  the  picture-frames,  or  piercing  down,  struck 
in  little  round  or  zig-zag  splashes  on  the  dark,  brown, 
streaked  floor.  The  old  woman  went  about  opening  the 
creaking  windows. 

"  You  don't  have  many  visitors?"  I  remarked  to  her 
husband. 

"  Very  few,  very  few."  He  shook  his  head  sadly, 
watching  me  curiously  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes  as  I 
wandered  about,  and  stopped  finally  before  several  early 
panels. 

"Those,"  he  said  pointing  to  the  row,  "go  to  the  Col- 
umbian Exposition  in  Madrid.  Twenty-five  of  them, — 
if  they  will  pay  the  freight  there  and  back,"  he  added  in 
a  parenthesis.  The  old  woman  re-appeared. 

"  Here,  take  the  keys  and  open  the  other  room,"  said 
her  husband  without  moving.  I  stopped  her  and  asked 
how  long  she  had  been  there. 

"  Thirty-five  years — and  a  good  many  more  in  my 
own  place." 


174  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

"  You  remember  the  French  then  ?" 

She  was  going  out  but  now  halted  suddenly,  and  came 
tottering  back,  the  great  keys  hanging  jingling  from  her 
hands.  A  little  flush  of  excitement  had  risen  to  her  cheek. 

"/remember  the  French  !"  she  said.  "  They  were  in 
our  town — in  my  father's  house  too.  There  were  a  lot  of 
them — but  I  can  just  remember  it — when  I  was  a  girl. 
Yes,  they  ate  up  the  sheep.  They  killed  twenty  at  one 
time  and  ate  them — and  they  burned  the  house — I  can 
just  remember  it — when  I  was  a  girl."  She  shook  the  keys 
in  her  excitement.  "  And  then  they  were  always  trying 
to  make  me  talk  their  language — but  I  never  could — only 
a  few  words — I  remember  the  word  for  cow  was  vac  he — 
I  can  just  remember  it — when  I  was  a  girl." 

A  thoughtful,  far-off  look  came  dimly  into  the  face  of 
the  old  creature.  What  had  come  back  to  her  mind  ? 
Was  it  the  memory  of  the  one  who  had  taught  her  that 
unpoetic  word  ?  Some  gay  young  Frenchman — when  she 
was  a  girl  ?  I  tried  to  look  into  her  past,  to  see  her 
younger  face  through  the  wrinkles,  and  picture  her  as  a 
girl.  It  was  like  looking  through  prison-bars  into  a  dim 
room. 

"  Do  you  ever  have  any  English  here  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No — not  many,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  when  they 
come  they  only  talk  their  own  language.  What  a  language 
of  dogs  it  is  !  You  are  French  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  American." 

"But  you  do  not  speak  Spanish  in  your  country?" 

In  answer  to  my  inquiries  he  told  me  how  to  get  out 
to  Monte  Aragon,  and  fell  to  talking  about  the  old  place 
as  it  was  long  ago. 

"  There  were  as  many  windows  as  there  are  days  in 
the  year,"  he  said. 


Huesca — Jaca  175 

"  And  the  singing,"  added  the  woman,  "  that  used  to 
be  fine  !" 

"  Yes,  every  day  the  monks  and  the  procession  and 
the  singing !  There  was  one  young  fellow  there  then — 
what  a  voice  he  had  !  He  went  to  Madrid  afterwards 
and  all  the  world  went  crazy  over  him.  Such  a  face  ! 
You  would  have  thought  an  angel  from  Heaven  was  sing- 
ing. He  went  away  and  made  money — a  great  deal  of 
money.  He  sent  it  home  for  a  while.  But  then  there 
was  a  woman  and  he  stopped.  There  is  always  a  woman  ! " 
And  the  old  fellow  tried  to  throw  some  intensity  into  his 
leer  up  at  me. 

And  so  these  two  old  creatures  talked  on,  never  telling 
me  anything  I  wanted  to  know,  but  giving  a  picture  of 
long  lives  of  small  deprivations  and  continued  patience 
in  failure,  which  were  perhaps  after  all  as  important  as  the 
Cathedral  of  Huesca  itself. 

I  followed  my  crippled  guide.  "  I  can't  earn  anything" 
he  said,  holding  up  his  misshapen  hands,  "  so  in  the  sum- 
mer I  guide  strangers."  We  went  to  the  palace  of  the 
Kings  of  Aragon — the  Institute — and  saw  the  room  where 
Ramiro  made  the  famous  bell  which  was  to  be  heard  all 
over  Aragon. 

The  story  is  told  that  the  King  when  hard-pressed  by 
his  nobles,  sent  a  messenger  to  the  abbot  Frotardo  of  San 
Pone  de  Tomeras  with  a  letter  in  which  he  begged  his  ad- 
vice as  to  the  treatment  of  his  rebellious  subjects.  The 
reply  of  the  abbot  was  laconic  ;  leading  the  messenger 
through  his  garden,  where  a  number  of  cabbages  were 
growing,  he  selected  in  silence  the  tallest  heads  and  cut 
them  down  with  a  stick.  He  then  told  the  messenger  to 
return  to  the  King  and  tell  him  what  he  had  seen.  The 
pupil  of  the  monk  had  no  difficulty  in  reading  between 


176  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


the  lines,  and  a  few  days  later  his  edict  went  forth  for  the 
assembling  of  the  nobles  and  the  people  for  the  purpose 
of  casting  a  bell  which  should  be  heard  all  over  Aragon. 
All  who  could  respond  to  the  summons  flocked  to  the  city, 
not  certain  whether  to  laugh  or  to  marvel  at  this  new  ca- 
price of  the  King.  Five 
of  the  chief  men  of  the 
kingdom,  of  the  house 
of  Luna,  were  taken 
apart  into  a  small  sub- 
terranean room  and 
executed.  Their  bodies 
were  then  shown  to  the 
populace,  and  tradition 
affirms  that  by  a  rope 
suspended  from  the 
keystone  of  the  arch  of 
the  room  the  head  of 
the  chief  traitor  was 
hung  in  imitation  of 
the  clapper  of  the  bell. 
It  is  somewhat  dis- 


THE    BELL  OF  ARAGON 


appointing  that  the 
story  of  the  Bell  of  Aragon  cannot  quite  stand  alone.  In 
substantiation  of  it,  the  discovery  of  decapitated  bodies  is 
asserted  to  have  been  made  in  the  ruins  of  the  church  of 
San  Juan  of  Jerusalem,  when  the  latter  was  taken  down 
to  make  room  for  the  present  Bull  Ring.  But  decapitated 
bodies  merely,  do  not  prove  the  story. 

After  a  night  on  an  improvised  bed  of  chairs,  enlivened 
by  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  escape  vermin,  I  am  up  at 
dawn  and  striving  to  hurry  the  arrival  of  the  tartana  or- 
dered the  previous  evening. 


Huesca — Jaca  17? 

At  6.40,  in  the  little  canvas-covered,  two-wheeled,  one- 
horse  affair,  we  start  for  Monte  Aragon.  As  we  drive 
along  the  carretera  the  morning  air  is  cool  and  fresh.  We 
meet  donkeys  loaded  with  brush  and  faggots  from  the  hills, 
though  we  stare  in  vain  across  the  treeless  miles  for  the 
source  of  supply.  At  seven,  we  leave  the  highway  and 
turn  into  a  small,  rocky  road  which  soon  brings  us  into 
Quicena,  where  our  first  sight  is  a  Madonna-faced  little 
girl,  leaning  on  a  pile  of  striped  blankets  hung  from  an 
upper  window. 

"  Who  has  the  keys  to  Monte  Aragon  ? "  calls  my 
driver  to  an  old  woman  in  black,  about  whose  swollen  left 
cheek  a  black  handkerchief  is  bound — national  sign  of  a 
raging  tooth. 

"  The  Alcalde,"  she  mumbles  with  difficulty,  and  he 
goes  to  get  them.  In  a  few  moments  he  returns  loaded 
down.  They  are  four  in  number,  the  ordinary  huge  iron 
implements,  which  he  throws  with  a  crash  on  the  seat.  A 
little  further  on  we  reach  a  mill  whose  exterior  walls  are 
decorated  with  a  drawing  of  a  remarkable  railroad  train, 
the  artistic  efforts,  no  doubt,  of  one  of  those  small,  flour- 
covered,  large-eyed  boys  who  stand  staring  at  us.  The 
climb  to  the  castle  is  somewhat  steep,  but,  up  at  last,  we 
discover  a  fine  ruin,  though  everything  that  could  be  taken, 
and  was  worth  the  taking,  has  been  carted  off  to  Zaragoza. 
The  place  where  the  famous  retablo  of  Damian  Forment 
stood  is  only  a  hole  in  the  plaster  and  I  return  rather  dis- 
appointed to  the  mill,  where  the  people  down-stairs,  sitting 
up  to  their  knees  in  corn-husks,  ask  me  how  I  liked  the 
castle,  and  give  me  a  glass  of  clear  cold  water. 

Finding  no  comfortable  seat,  and  seeing  the  cart  un- 
harnessed before  the  door,  I  walk  up  innocently  and 
scramble  in  over  the  back,  whereupon,  as  might  have  been 


178  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

expected,  it  turns  over  on  me  with  malignant  agility. 
Covered  with  dust  and  mud  I  emerge  in  silent  humility. 

"  We  don't  get  in  that  way,"  says  the  driver,  gravely. 

We  start  on  our  way  a  few  minutes  later,  a  black-eyed 
girl's  shouts  of  laughter  sounding  longest  in  my  ears. 

At  twelve  the  coach  starts  for  Jaca.  In  the  compart- 
ment in  front  with  me  is  a  man  from  the  mountains  and  a 
cura.  Spain  and  its  condition  become  the  subject  of  dis- 
cussion, and  the  man  from  the  mountain  is  loud-tongued 
in  denunciations  of  the  Government,  after  which  the  bad 
grape  crop  has  its  turn  and  the  same  speaker  tells,  finally, 
how  twenty  years  before,  he  had  driven  goats  from  France 
to  Huesca  by  this  route. 

The  stage  slows  suddenly  before  a  house  painted 
yellow.  Only  a  little  girl  of  six  or  seven  is  in  sight. 

"  Here  nina"  says  our  mayoral  holding  out  a  letter, 
"take  that  to  Juan  and  say  that  Jose  forgot  to  leave  it 
as  he  went  through  last  night,  on  account  of  the  rain." 
The  child  takes  it,  the  whip  snaps,  and  we  are  off  again. 
Further  explanation  of  this  delay  of  the  mails  is  not 
thought  necessary. 

The  land  has  its  usual  dry  and  barren  look ;  only 
the  trees  by  the  roadside,  with  holes  dug  about  their 
roots  for  water,  suggest  aided  vegetation.  The  carretera 
winds  steadily  on  between  them,  always  in  good  condition, 
with  conical  stone  guards  at  the  elevated  places,  and  now 
and  then  small  heaps  of  broken  rock,  ready  to  instantly 
repair  the  first  wear  in  its  surface.  The  roads  of  Spain 
are  excellent,  especially  in  the  North.  Lizards  and  tumble- 
bugs  are  the  only  living  things.  Suddenly  the  man  from 
the  mountain  bends  over. 

"  There  ! "  he  says,  divesting  himself  of  his  shoes  and 
stockings  and  stretching  his  toes  apart  with  seeming  great 


Huesca — Jaca 


179 


comfort — "  Now  they  won't  hurt  me."     By  and  by  he  rests 
his  head  upon  my  shoulder  and  falls  into  a  peaceful  sleep. 

There  are  no  fences.  Now  and  then  we  pass  the  lines 
of  mojoneras  or  division  posts,  a  direct  inheritance  from 
Rome  and  the  memory  of  the  great  god  Terminus.  At 
a  quarter  past  one  the  first  road  guards  appear.  They 
stand,  immovable,  one  on  each  side  of  the  way.  Fifteen 
minutes  later,  at  Plasencia,  we  meet  the  other  stage. 

At  two,  our  six  horses  and  two  mules  begin  to  pull 
more  slowly  up  the  ascent,  and  the  blue  haze  on  the  dis- 
tant edge  of  the  valley  is  deeper.  There  are  shad- 
ows of  clouds  on  the  mountains.  Up  through  a 
water-washed  arroyo  and  over  the  rise  along  the 
straight  bit  of  road,  then  on  and  down  to  Ayerve, 
lying  on  the  floor  of  a  valley  and 
under  the  side  of  a  mountain,  up 
which  it  partly  creeps. 
Above,  on  separate 
peaks,  stand  a  monas- 
tery and  some  ruins. 
To  the  right  rise  the 
walls  of  the  cliff,  and 
straight  ahead,  through 
the  pass,  more  rugged 
peaks.  The  square 
tower  of  the  church 
overtops  the  town,  and 
we  drive  in  and  through 
the  plaza,  curving  with 
the  street  line  to  the 
right  and  stopping  un- 
der the  clock-tower, 
with  the  dilapidated  palace  of  the  Marquises  of  Ayerve 


THE   CLOCK  TOWER-AYERVE 


i8o  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

opposite.  A  little  girl  of  about  fifteen,  with  a  green 
handkerchief  tied  over  her  head,  wants  to  get  down  from 
the  top  of  the  stage  here,  but  refuses  to  be  taken  in  the 
arms  of  the  mayoral. 

They  bring  the  ladder  and  she  comes  down  slowly, 
tucking  her  dress  about  her.  "  Come — come,"  says  the 
Zagal,  steadying  it,  "I  'm  blind.  Don't  be  afraid,"  and 
everybody  laughs,  even  the  hatless,  white-haired  beggar 
with  the  crooked  crutch. 

By  highroad  from  Huesca  to  Ayerve*  is  some  23  kilo- 
metres, and  the  town  is  as  gray  and  treeless  and  uninvit- 
ing as  is  most  of  Aragon.  Its  history,  however,  as  is  the 
history  of  the  greater  number  of  these  little  northern  cities 
is  one  of  continual  strife  and  slow  development.  It  was 
from  these  desolate  places  that  Spain  drew  her  best  forces 
in  the  eternal  struggle  toward  the  south. 

"  Ca  ! "  answers  a  man,  with  a  Basque  hat  pulled  down 
over  his  face,  to  my  question  about  the  palace  and  its 
owner,  "  sold  everything.  Once  the  family  had  fine  es- 
tates here,  but  they  are  all  gone  now."  At  this  moment, 
a  mangy,  half-clipped  mule  and  his  driver  come  slowly  out 
from  beneath  the  arched  portals  of  the  palace  of  the  ancient 
Marquises  of  Ayerve  ! 

The  family  of  Pedro  Jordan  de  Urries  long  occupied 
the  barony  of  Ayerve,  but  there  was  considerable  friction 
with  the  inhabitants.  This  continued  until,  during  the 
life  of  Hugo  de  Urries,  the  trouble  became  accentuated 
and  the  courts  decided  that  the  barony  should  revert  to  the 
Crown,  much  to  the  joy  and  enthusiasm  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  town.  Hugo,  however,  considered  himself  seriously 

*  The  following  gives  some  idea  of  the  growth  of  these  little  towns : 
The  population  of  Ayerve,  according  to  Juan  Juste  Garcia,  in  1819  was  1239  inhabi- 
tants ;  Madoz  gives,  in  1834,  2170  inhabitants  ;   Serrano,  in  1879,  gives  2610  ;  Maurio 
y  Escaso  in  the  same  year  2300,  and  the  census  of  1877,  2402. 


Huesca — Jaca 


offended  by  this  sentence.  He  opened  a  criminal  process 
against  three  of  the  judges  who  had  made  it,  and  on 
the  1 7th  of  July,  1768,  obtained  a  vote  in  his  favor.  As 
an  illustration  of  the  kind  of  verdict  which  this  proved, 
it  is  interesting  to 
note  that  one  of  the 
seventeen  judges 
hereupon  arose  and 
declared  that  he  had 
deposited  in  the  urn 
a  black  vote  owing 
to  the  fact  that  he 
did  not  clearly  under- 
stand the  case,  and 
that  he  now  wished 
to  revoke  his  vote. 
A  new  vote  was 
taken  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  resulting  in 
a  reversal  of  the  first 
decision.  Don  Hugo  was  thereupon  deprived  of  his 
barony.  But  he  so  won  upon  the  king,  when  sent  to 
Madrid  to  give  an  account  of  his  conduct,  that  he  was 
returned  to  his  country  with  the  recompense  of  an  annual 
rent  of  2000  ducats. 

From  here  the  scenery  grows  bolder  until  we  get  to  the 
old  town  of  Murillo,  where  two  great  cones  of  rock  rise 
high  above  the  houses  at  the  entrance  to  a  gorge  through 
which  runs  the  river.  These  columns  are  really  imposing  ; 
there  is  a  hint  of  Yosemite  in  miniature. 

We  cross  the  Gallego  on  a  bridge  of  stone  and  iron, 
and  climb  an  ascent  before  reaching  the  village,  which 
stands  above  the  river  where  it  breaks  through  the  rocks, 


PALACE  OF  THE  MARQUIS  OF  AYERVE 


1 82  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

only  stopping  a  moment  below,  on  the  edge  of  the  town, 
long  enough  to  drive  a  bargain  for  figs  with  a  little  girl 
who  has  a  heaped  basket.  Twelve  for  one  cent  is  the 
price.  My  companion  says  it  is  extortionate  !  Then  on, 
under  the  gigantic  masses  of  rock  where,  above  the  Gallego, 
there  is  a  stunted  growth  of  pines  among  the  debris  of  the 
fallen  cliff. 

Our  next  stop  is  at  an  inn,  before  which  a  light  suspen- 
sion-bridge crosses  the  river.  On  a  board  is  written  a 
warning  to  passers.  Nothing  must  go  over  weighing  more 
than  1500  kilos.  The  number  of  persons  must  not  be  above 
twenty-five  and  they  are  to  go  gently  to  avoid  grandes  os- 
cilaciones. 

Everybody  takes  aguardiente,  and  we  go  on.  The 
embankment  of  the,  as  yet  unfinished,  railroad  to  Can- 
franc  is  above  us  now.  We  pass  under  a  ridge  with  a  line 
of  rocks  like  the  Hudson  Palisades,  ending  in  a  sweeping 
knoll  with  a  square  ruin  on  its  top,  and  soon  after  descend 
and  come  in  sight  of  an  ancient  bridge  with  a  great  pointed 
boulder  above  it.  Here  is  the  third  change  of  animals  ; 
then  on  through  the  rock,  by  a  tunnel,  with  hollow  rush 
and  clatter.  We  have  only  two  horses, — the  rest  are 
mules,  all  closely  and  beautifully  clipped.  We  reach  An- 
zanigo  at  5.15  and  the  light  is  getting  so  dim  that  a  wo- 
man below  by  the  river,  washing  clothes,  looks  a  mere 
picturesque  shadow. 

As  we  turn  up  the  valley  a  great  mass  of  exquisite 
pink  cloud  lies  before  us,  and  on  the  cliffs  as  well,  far 
ahead,  the  pink  light  has  fallen.  The  man  beside  me,  (I 
am  now  on  the  roof  of  the  stage)  wears  a  purple  head- 
handkerchief  with  a  red  figure  in  it,  a  purple  sash  or 
faja,  linen  drawers  projecting  below  cloth  trousers  at  the 
knee,  whose  sides  are  slashed  and  tied  with  ribbon  ;  blue 


Huesca — Jaca  183 

worsted  stockings,  a  brown  worsted  shirt  covered  by  a 
low-cut  vest  and  two  blue  striped  jackets.  On  his  feet 
are  sandals.  It  is  growing  rather  cold,  so  I  get  down  as 
soon  as  the  light  fails,  to  go  back  into  my  old  quarters 
with  the  man  from  the  mountains  and  the  cur  a.  The 
moonlight  begins  to  be  clearer,  and  the  pink  dies  out  and 
leaves  the  clouds  ahead  snow  white. 

Our  last  change  (6.35)  is  at  Bernues,  and  the  horses 
are  covered  with  foam.  As  we  leave  the  place  a  bell  tolls 
faintly  in  the  distance  and  the  dark  closes  in.  Except  for 
a  momentary  flash  of  lights  on  the  arms  of  the  last  pair  of 
silent  Guardias,  there  is  nothing  more.  At  eight,  we 
gallop  into  the  half-moon-lit  streets  of  Jaca,  turn  to  the 
right,  pass  the  cathedral  and  stop. 


XII 
JACA— PANTICOSA 

AFTER  patient  waiting  our  bags  are  gathered  up  and 
we  start  off  in  search  of  the  hotel,  through  narrow, 
dimly-lighted  streets.  As  we  turn  a  corner  we  lose  sight 
of  the  little  group  by  the  stage,  the  mayoral  holding  a 
lantern  up  above  a  dozen  faces  shaded  by  over-hanging 
caps,  and  cursing  vigorously  over  a  piece  of  obdurate  har- 
ness. It  is  only  a  step  to  the  Fonda,  but  late  as  it  is,  we 
find  the  place  in  a  state  of  confusion.  The  proprietress  is 
in  the  midst  of  moving  her  worldly  possessions  prepara- 
tory to  a  sale,  and  household  belongings  strew  the  ground. 
I  am  at  first  altogether  refused  admittance,  though  at  last 
a  room  in  the  other  building,  where  they  are  about  to  go 
themselves,  is  promised  me,  and  there,  supper  over,  I  sleep 
soundly,  after  arranging  with  a  driver  to  take  me  to  Pan- 
ticosa,  starting  the  following  day  at  twelve. 

My  earliest  exploraion  on  this  next  morning  is  of  the 
low,  solemn  little  Cathedral  of  Santa  Orosia,  with  its  gi- 
gantic columns  and  memories  of  Ramiro,  its  founder,  of 
the  ninth  century. 

The  air  is  cool  as  I  start  to  walk  around  the  town.  A 
few  birds  are  singing  in  the  trees  by  the  walls,  a  goat's 
bell  tinkles,  and  now  and  then  a  hog  goes  by,  grunting. 

The  Octroi  collector  is  having  a  vigorous  argument 

184 


Jaca — Panticosa  185 

with  some  women  about  the  value  of  their  donkey's  load  of 
wood  as  I  pass  the  San  Pedro  gate.  He  evidently  has  grave 
suspicions,  for  soon  they  begin  slowly  unloading  the  ani- 
mal at  command  before  his  eyes,  with  gesticulations  and 
anger.  There  are  three  of  these  women  of  whom  the 
most  energetic  seems  to  be  the  oldest,  a  huge  creature 
whose  skirts  are  a  foot  above  the  earth,  and  whose  two 
clumsy  legs  project  from  the  upper  vast  like  the  columns 
of  the  cathedral  I  have  just  left.  I  stand  and  watch  un- 
til, stick  by  stick,  the  load  is  piled  by  the  roadside — and 
something  is  laid  bare.  It  is  a  something  wrapped  in 
paper  bound  close  upon  the  animal's  back.  There  is  si- 
lence now,  and  the  guard  takes  it  with  unchanging  expres- 
sion, opens  it,  considers  and  then  turns  into  his  little  office 
by  the  gate. 

More  to  the  east  you  come  on  the  valley  lying  below 
the  town,  and  farther  still  the  peak  of  Oroel  is  in  sight. 

I  re-enter  town  by  the  restored  gate  of  San  Francisco, 
and  walk  back  to  the  Fonda  along  the  Calle  Mayor.  A 
baptism  is  going  on  in  the  house  opposite  and  a  crowd  of 
children  have  collected  and  are  calling  for  coppers  (which 
it  is  the  custom  to  distribute  on  such  occasions).  They 
dance,  and  shriek,  and  yell,  and  scramble  over  the  scantily 
distributed  coins,  falling  about  in  wild  little  heaps,  their 
butting,  noisy  heads  rising  here  and  there  above  the  mass. 
They  are  all  ragged,  all  dirty,  all  healthy,  with  the  firm 
faces  of  little  mountaineers,  only,  here  and  there,  gleam  a 
pair  of  beady  black  eyes  transplanted  from  the  south  en  el 
tiempo  de  los  moros. 

This  morning,  taking  advice  received  in  Huesca,  I  hunt 
up  a  certain  Padre  Felix  who  had  made  a  study  of  San 
Juan  de  la  Pefta,  chief  of  the  things  I  had  come  to  see. 
He  is  very  willing  to  aid  me,  even  proposing  that  we  go 


186  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

out  together  to  San  Juan,  if  I  would  go  on  Sunday,  for 
during  the  week  he  is  busy  with  his  pupils. 

My  room  at  the  Fonda  is  filled  with  works  of  art. 
There  are  some  pictures  of  fine,  blue  dolphins  with  red 
tongues  and  fiery  eyes,  which  are  incomparable  for  vivid- 
ness of  action,  as  they  pursue  certain  creatures,  which  a 
false  respect  for  perspective  on  the  part  of  the  artist  has 
rendered  by  long,  narrow,  purple  blots.  Two  portraits  of 
Sagasta  also  decorate  the  desert  wall  above  my  bed,  and 
a  number  of  small  vases  stand  in  military  row  on  two 
narrow  shelves  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 

We  leave  Jaca  for  Panticosa  a  little  after  noon,  and  it 
is  cool  even  at  that  hour  for  we  are  nearly  3000  feet 
above  tide.  The  drive  to  Biescas,  where  we  are  to  spend 
the  night,  is  pleasant  though  cold.  We  cross  the  Aurin 
above  its  junction  with  the  Gallego,  and  then  follow  the 
course  of  the  latter  stream.  A  town  lies  just  ahead,  and 
a  little  farther,  between  that  and  Olivan,  half-way  up  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  stands  a  solitary  tower.  The  driver, 
Leopoldo,  a  young  fellow  of  twenty,  of  pure  Arabic  type, 
calls  it  the  Moors  Tower, — a  not  uncommon  name  in  a 
land  where  El  Moro  is  so  deeply  impressed  upon  the  very 
landscape.  He  wears  a  red  handkerchief,  this  Leopoldo, 
tied  in  a  band  about  his  head  and  cocked  rakishly  on  one 
side.  His  face  is  clear-cut  and  refined  ;  very  different  from 
the  general  strong,  heavy-featured  peasant  face  hereabouts. 
He  is  lithe,  clean-limbed,  smiling,  keen-eyed.  "  It  is  where 
they  used  to  retreat  when  the  Christians  came,"  he  con- 
tinues, turning  the  delicate  outline  of  a  countenance  which 
might  have  been  witness  from  the  walls  themselves  of  a 
scouring  band  of  mounted  Christians  sending  up  their  war- 
cry  of  St.  James  against  his  half  contemptuous  and  but 
half-spoken,  "  No  God  but  God." 


i87 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  JACA 


Jaca — Panticosa  189 

We  turn  along  the  left  of  the  valley  and  have  a  view 
of  piled-up  mountains,  the  clouds  resting  on  their  tops. 
The  opposite  peak  comes  in  sight — Biescas  lying  down 
between  two  foot-hills.  As  we  draw  nearer,  the  town  di- 
vides itself  into  its  two  parroquias — San  Pedro  on  the  left 
of  the  river,  and  San  Salvador  on  the  right,  and  with  the 
usual  clatter  we  drive  into  a  sort  of  czd-de-sac  court,  about 
which  is  the  hotel.  From  the  upper  window  leans  the  fat 
proprietor,  bare-headed,  indifferent. 

After  giving  a  hasty  account  of  myself  and  a  promise 
to  return,  I  cross  the  bridge  to  the  other  town  which  is  on 
rising  ground,  and  was  probably  the  original  settlement. 
A  sharp  walk  up  the  mountain-side  brings  the  town  at  my 
feet.  The  blue,  supper-time  smoke  is  floating  up  from 
its  chimneys.  There  are  brush  fires  on  the  mountain 
above,  and  the  two  clouds  of  smoke  float  off  together  up 
the  pass,  from  which  direction  comes,  mingled  with  the 
tinkling  of  goat  bells,  the  sustained,  monotonous  bray  of  a 
donkey.  Down  the  valley  it  comes,  that  sound,  in  long 
waves  and  echoes,  in  sobs  and  complainings,  choked, 
gurgling,  cursing,  dying,  reviving,  finally  floating  away 
with  the  fading  light  in  one  final  burst  of  desperate  animal 
profanity.  The  sun,  just  sinking  below  the  mountain  op- 
posite, comes  out  of  the  clouds  for  a  moment  and  sends  a 
last  blaze  of  light  over  the  valley  and  up  into  the  rocky 
barrancas  dry  bed  behind  me.  The  light  marks  the  sides 
of  the  hills  more  clearly,  for  a  moment  fading  the  green  of 
the  valley  below.  The  cry  of  a  child,  or  the  bark  of  a  dog 
rise,  quaveringly,  at  long  intervals,  through  the  hush,  as 
through  some  denser  element,  while  the  sun  sinks  lower 
and  throws  up  light  on  the  clouds  from  underneath  with 
splendid  effect. 

A  little  girl  goes  by  driving  two  black  and  white  hogs. 


190  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

"  God  be  with  you,"  she  replies  to  my  adios,  and  disappears 
leaving  me  to  continue  my  walk  further  up  the  mountain. 
As  I  return,  the  sun  has  sunk  lower.  The  clouds  take 
fire,  like  balls  of  loose  cotton,  and  over  the  peaks  there  is 
a  strange  luridness  like  the  flash  of  cannon,  in  the  lead- 

o 

colored  masses. 

On  reaching  the  bridge  it  is  late,  and  I  hurry  on  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  a  little  girl  who  keeps  calling  after  me 
— "  Caballero — buen  caballero."  I  suppose  her  to  be  a  beg- 
gar, but  have  not  been  in  the  hotel  a  moment  before  she 
appears  at  the  door  with  a  little  red,  excited  face,  and  de- 
mands justice  of  the  proprietor  against  me. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  nina  ?     What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  What  is  it !  when  I  have  run  a  mile  after  you  to  pay 
me — calling  '  Caballero — Caballero  ' — and  you  get  away 
because  you  are  so  big  and  walk  so  fast — and  then  you 
ask  me,  what  is  the  matter?"  and  her  little  face  puckers 
up  with  wrath. 

"  Pay  you  ?     Pay  what  ?  " 

The  proprietor  comes  to  my  assistance,  explaining  that 
strangers  are  expected  to  pay  a  tax  of  one  cent  for  cross- 
ing the  river  by  the  bridge,  and  she  before  me  is  the  toll- 
gatherer  ;  I  pay  my  toll  and  retire,  but  as  I  look  back  I 
can  see  the  little  figure,  slowly  and  with  great  dignity, 
marching  back  to  her  post  by  the  bridge. 

"  Come  up  into  the  Casino,"  says  the  old  man,  "  and 
I  '11  light  the  lamp  "  ;  and  up  into  the  Casino  we  go,  for 
here  as  everywhere  there  must  be  a  local  club — to  which 
strangers  are  always  welcome.  The  room  is  of  the  ordi- 
nary type,  with  cushioned  seats  around  the  walls  and  tables 
down  the  centre. 

A  moment  later,  speaking  of  the  grape  harvest  of  the 
year  he  says  :  "  God  knows  when  we  will  get  such  an- 


Jaca — Panticosa  191 

other."  Turning  up  the  lamp  he  comes  and  sits  down  by 
me  and  takes  up  the  Huesca  Diario.  Opening  he  reads — 
"'EL  Colera  en  Hamburgo,  27, — Yesterday  occurred  in 
this  capital  according  to  the  official  reports  126  cases  of 
Cholera  and  47  deaths.' — -Jesus  /" 

He  turns  over  the  paper  and  reads  further — "  '  The 
Aragonese  Giant — There  has  arrived  in  Barcelona  the  so- 
called  Aragonese  Giant,  native  of  this  province."1 

Just  here  someone  calls,  and  he  pushes  the  paper  over 
to  me,  in  size  an  octavo,  resembling  somewhat  the  Bar- 
celona Dihivio. 

"  Here,  read  it  yourself,"  and  he  totters  away,  sliding 
his  feet,  at  the  same  time  tremulously  taking  off  and 
pocketing  his  spectacles. 

The  small  size  of  these  papers  in  the  larger  cities  makes 
it  easy  to  send  out  repeated  editions  during  the  course  of 
the  day,  and  news  reaches  the  public  very  soon  after  its 
arrival  at  the  central  office. 

That  evening  at  dinner,  the  conversation  turns  on  the 
Aragonese  giant.  It  seems  he  has  been  a  laborer  in  this 
district,  and  has  been  to  Biescas  once  or  twice,  where  his 
measure  has  been  taken  by  a  mark  on  the  door-frame.  A 
violent  discussion  of  his  points  occupies  an  hour.  There- 
upon it  is  suggested  (naturally  by  a  tall,  sturdy-looking 
fellow  in  high  boots)  that  we  all  go  out  and  make  our  mark 
under  that  of  the  giant.  The  little  dark  officer  takes  his 
turn  last,  and  is  least  by  five  inches  ;  whereupon,  not  to  be 
left  at  that,  he  rushes  at  the  pop-eyed  girl  who  waits  on  the 
table,  and  drags  her,  screaming  and  struggling,  amid  peals 
of  laughter,  to  take  her  height.  She  escapes,  however, 
and  he  remains  at  the  bottom  of  the  list. 

Discussion  in  the  Casino  turns  on  railways  and  their 
construction  in  Spain.  By  way  of  comparison  I  give  some 


i92  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

statistics  as  to  English  and  American  engineering  feats 
which  I  chanced  to  recall.  Up  to  that  moment  I  had  been 
listened  to  with  that  mild  and  gentle  toleration  which  the 
Spaniard  is,  by  some  effort,  able  to  extend  to  such  unfor- 
tunates as  have  not  been  born  upon  Peninsula  soil.  Now, 
however,  I  could  see  a  slight  change,  and  before  four  state- 
ments had  been  made  I  understood  clearly  that  I  had  been 
set  down  as  a  liar.  My  remarks  on  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
produced  only  one  "yes?"  from  a  hang-dog  looking  man 
whom  I  had  thought  slightly  unsound  of  mind. 

"  Impossible  !  "  said  the  strong,  heavy-faced  man  finally, 
hitting  his  leggings  a  blow  with  a  stick,  from  the  end  of 
which  projected  a  point  of  iron  two  inches  long.  The  sol- 
dier seized  his  moustaches  in  each  hand,  put  his  elbows  on 
the  table,  and  stared.  "  Why,  such  a  bridge  as  that  "  said 
the  strong  man,  poking  the  floor,  "would  have  to  be  a  hun- 
dred yards  wide — at  the  very  least." 

"  Ninety  "  said  the  soldier,  emphatically. 

I  stated  the  number  of  railroad  tracks,  foot-passenger 
ways,  and  carriage  roads  on  it. 

"Jesus!" 

"  A  hundred  yards  certain,"  said  the  strong  man. 

The  argument  as  to  the  width  of  the  bridge  from  that 
moment  became  furious,  and  it  was  half  an  hour  before 
electricity  had  its  turn. 

And  so  we  talked  and  talked  until  the  room  was  fogged 
with  smoke  and  all  the  glasses  were  empty. 

At  a  little  after  dawn,  with  a  second  horse  hitched  tan- 
dem,  and  leaving  our  wrhite  mule  of  yesterday  to  rest,  we 
drive  out  of  Biescas  as  the  bells  are  tolling  for  mass. 

The  morning  is  cold  and  clear,  and  I  am  glad  to  roll 
myself  up  in  a  rug  and  wait  for  the  sun  to  come  in  sight. 
The  clouds  hang  low  down  on  the  side  of  the  mountains, 


Jaca — Panticosa  193 

and  at  every  few  hundred  feet  we  pass  the  water-swept 
mouth  of  some  small  arroyo.  Somewhat  beyond  the  en- 
trance of  the  hills,  we  come  upon  a  picturesque  castle 
perched  above  the  cleft  in  the  rocks,  through  which  runs 
the  river,  and  across  which  is  flung  a  stone  bridge.  On 
the  other  side,  a  line  of  loop-holes  peer  threateningly  from 
the  cliff  face,  for  this  is  one  of  the  important  passes  to 
France,  and  the  government  has  fortified  it  accordingly, 
Above  in  process  of  construction  is  another  fort  up  to 
which  a  road  leads,  and  farther  along  the  valley  on  the 
dividing  lines  of  the  two  countries,  like  an  emblem  of 
peace,  a  church  is  built  on  an  over-hanging  crag.  Farther 
still  a  cascade  breaks  down  through  the  rocks  and  pine 
forests  of  the  abrupt  declivity. 

At  Polituera  we  pass  under  gigantic  cliffs,  rising  on  the 
other  side  in  a  sort  of  magnificent  semi-circle,  with  a  great 
column  at  one  end  ;  the  clouds  hang  above  them. 

Here,  our  horse  having  cast  a  shoe,  we  are  delayed 
a  while,  the  driver  paying  the  blacksmith  one  centavo  for 
his  services.  As  we  drive  on,  the  clouds  have  a  touch  of 
gold  from  the  rising  sun,  and  at  one  point  to  the  left,  high 
above  us,  they  thin  a  little  about  the  abrupt  sides  of  a  cliff, 
showing  the  bald  rocks  peering  through  and  seemingly 
suspended  in  mid-air. 

Now  and  then  a  peasant  passes,  sometimes  walking 
and  prodding  a  lazy  mule  or  sleepy  donkey,  or  mounted 
in  a  silent,  inexpressive,  collapsed  heap  upon  his  back.  A 
purple  faja  or  red  head-handkerchief  marks  him  far  up  the 
road,  and  nearly  everyone  carries  a  green  cotton  umbrella, 
in  eternal  preparation  for  rain. 

At  a  turn  to  the  right  we  come  to  a  group  of  houses 
with  cleanly  slated  roofs,  that  look  more  French  than 
Spanish,  standing  amid  a  military  group  of  poplars  above 


i94  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

the  rich  green  valley  below.  Soon  after,  as  we  enter  what 
might  be  a  little  New  England  forest,  we  pass  two  horse- 
men in  cloaks  of  bright  velvet,  who  bow  with  the  true  dig- 
nity of  highwaymen,  but  allow  us  to  pass  ;  and  then  leaving 
the  valley  of  the  Gallego  on  the  left  and  crossing  it  on  the 
stone  bridge  of  Escarilla,  we  turn  up  the  other  side  and  off 
towards  Panticosa,  for  the  first  time  getting  a  view  of  the 
cathedral-like  peaks,  under  which  we  have  been  passing, 
and  the  bright  patches  of  snow  in  the  clefts  of  the  moun- 
tains to  the  left  of  the  valley  we  are  about  to  ascend.  A 
little  later  we  see  the  town  of  Panticosa,  a  pretty  little 
place  with  ninety  or  a  hundred  houses,  crowded  together 
just  above  the  church. 

On  the  left  of  the  road,  where  blackberries  are  grow- 
ing in  dense  patches,  falls  a  frigidly  cold  stream,  which 
disappears  among  steep  fields  of  potatoes  and  cabbages. 
Now  the  gorge  narrows,  and  we  pass  under  a  splendid 
cliff  with  a  fine  thread-like  waterfall  near  it.  Then  up 
along  the  river  Caldares  which  boils  below  with  a  surging 
noise  and  far  from  whose  edge  a  straggling  army  of  fear- 
stricken  pines  are  trying  to  scale  the  steep  sides  to  a  place 
of  safety.  Soon  the  road  begins  to  zig-zag,  and,  in  spite 
of  the  sun,  it  is  so  cold  that  we  are  glad  to  stop  at  the 
road-master's  house  and  go  in  to  warm  ourselves  at  the 
fire.  Three  children  are  seated  in  the  middle  of  the  floor 
about  a  wooden  bowl,  eating  a  kind  of  scrap-pudding  with 
wooden  spoons.  The  cat  tries  now  and  then  to  get  a  biter 
but  a  determined  little  three-year-old  has  his  eye  on  him, 
and  at  last  gets  in  an  all  but  fatal  blow  on  the  thief's  back 
with  his  wooden  spoon. 

But  it  is  too  cold  to  let  the  sweating  horses  stand  long, 
so  we  start  on  again  past  a  rocky  cleft  and  a  bridge  where 
three  carabineros  stand  leaning  on  their  guns.  We  rise 


194  te-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

'>dow.      Soon  afte;  :  or  what 

»  horse- 
te  true  dig- 

at  allov  it'll  leaving 

it  on  the 
de  and  off 
\\  of  the 
- 

•;oun- 
A 
litt! 
• 

<t  of  th 

ing  in   Jt  n.se  ]..> 
tlis  ?  amon- 

No\v   tiv 

-vliich  1  with  a  surging- 

;  army  of  fear- 

-  to  a  place 

' 
p  at  the 

vith 

>Hte, 

ii  him, 

am!  :>ack 

with  h; 

But  ^ing  horses  stand  long, 

so  we  start  >cky  cleft  and  a  bridge  where 

three  c.>  >ng  on  their  guns.      We  rise 


Jaca — Panticosa  195 

suddenly  up  to  the  level  now,  and  entering  a  rocky  valley 
pass  through  it,  turn  a  corner,  and  all  at  once  come  to  the 
waters  of  a  small  lake.  We  have  at  last  reached  the  baths, 
and  a  moment  later  the  great  bare  hotels,  with  their  rows 
of  closed  windows  and  deserted  gardens  and  walks,  appear. 
We  are  at  the  end  of  our  journey,  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
Pyrenees. 

This  Spanish  mountain-bath  after  the  season  seems  ut- 
terly abandoned.  The  lonely  solemnity  of  the  little  valley 
is  brought  home  as  it  could  never  have  been  had  those 

o 

long,  hideous  hotels  been  full  of  clamoring  invalids  eager 
for  news  of  the  last  comers.  Their  deserted  weather- 
beaten  look  seems  to  suggest  in  a  measure  some  sort  of 
secret  unexplained  triumph  over  the  insults  of  man  in  the 
place.  One  has  to  have  seen  the  Pyrenees  to  realize  their 
influence  on  the  character  and  history  of  the  Spanish  peo- 
ple. This  great  spiked  collar  about  the  neck  of  Europe 
has  truly  been  tight  enough  to  choke  off  international 
communication.  It  is  as  though  the  bareness,  the  chilling, 
sombre,  deserted,  lifeless  grandeur  of  these  mighty  Dons  of 
stone  had  set  the  fashion  of  dignity  and  forbiddingness  to 
a  whole  people  whom  they  look  down  upon.  How  could 
the  light  grace  of  France  be  ever  brought  to  struggle 
across  this  line  of  grimness  ?  Or,  if  across,  how  muffled 
up  and  chilled  must  it  be  on  arrival ! 

I  wander  about  the  deserted  place  for  an  hour.  Torn 
letters  are  scattered  in  the  stream  below.  A  fragment  lies 
on  the  bottom,  the  water  flowing  across  the  lines.  It 
reads  :  "  It  is  but  a  step  across.  Jose  has  gone  and  I  have 
told  Maria.  When  you  pass—  He  might  have  torn  the 
letter  finer — or  burnt  it ! 

Leopoldo,  as  I  am  pondering  this  possible  romance, 
brings  me  a  huge  piece  of  brown  bread,  with  a  lump  of 


i96  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

hog's  fat  on  it.  The  first  I  can  eat  very  comfortably.  The 
carabineros,  stationed  here  for  the  protection  of  the  fron- 
tier are  communicative  and  tell  me  about  the  place  how 
it  looks  in  summer,  and  how  the  snow  falls  ten  feet  deep 
in  the  winter.  But  now  the  valley  is  really  magnificent, 
shut  in  as  it  is  by  huge  mountains  of  bald  rock  on  each 
hand.  At  the  end  and  from  both  sides  fall  streams  of 
water,  great  dashing  cataracts,  tumults  of  white  foam,  the 
one  to  the  right  forming  the  source  of  supply  for  the  baths. 
From  the  little  cottage  above  one  gets  a  view  of  the 
northern  fall  which  is  the  largest. 

"  The  way  to  France,"  says  one  of  the  carabineros,  point- 
ing to  a  narrow  mule  path  winding  up  and  disappearing 
in  the  cleft  beside  the  fall. 

One  of  the  hotels — the  Fonda  Espanola  y  Francesa 
has,  in  large  figures,  the  height  above  the  sea — 1637  metres 
— written  upon  its  wall. 

We  leave  at  eleven,  by  the  clock  in  the  Casa  de  Inhala- 
tion, and  as  we  are  driving  down  the  long  grade,  Leopoldo 
suddenly  turns  to  me  letting  the  blanket  in  which  he  is 
rolled  to  the  eyes  fall  below  his  mouth. 

"  Did  they  talk  about  the  smugglers,  those  Guardias  f  " 
he  asks. 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  they  say  ?  " 

"  That  smugglers  never  got  through  here." 

Leopoldo  chuckles,  jeeringly.  "  They  get  through 
fast  enough,"  he  says. 

"  How?" 

"  Oh,  the  little  ones  get  caught,  but  when  a  big  load 
goes  through — what  would  you  have  ?  There  is  enough 
to  pay  every  one  ! " 

We  get  back  to  Biescas  for  breakfast,  and  after  the 


Jaca — Panticosa  197 

mule  has  been  changed  for  our  old,  white  animal  of  the 
day  before,  we  are  about  to  drive  off,  when  a  voice  calls 
above.  I  look  up  and  there  at  the  window  of  the  Casino 
are  my  friends  of  the  night  before.  "  Do  you  know,"  says 
the  soldier,  leaning  out,  "  we  Ve  been  talking  over  that 
bridge,  and  it  must  have  been  80  metres  wide."  "It  must 
be  "  says  the  strong  man  emphatically,  and  someone  says 
"  Yes  ?"  inquiringly  inside,  as  we  whip  up  and  drive  off. 

"  Adios — adios"  their  voices  float  back:  "  Adios — Feliz 
viaje  !  Adios." 


XIII 

SAN  JUAN  DE  LA  PEflA— THE  CAVE  OF 
THE  VIRGIN 

AT  six  on  the  following  morning  I  am  sitting,  like 
Alfred,  before  the  fire,  only  instead  of  the  cakes  he 
watched  so  badly,  my  charge  is  the  milk  and  eggs  which 
are  to  serve  for  my  breakfast  a  little  later.  And  with 
more  appetite  and  less  state  cares  I  am  doing  pretty  well. 
The  woman  has  gone  around  the  corner  for  bread.  We 
are  back  in  Jaca,  and  are  about  to  start  out  for  a  trip  to 
San  Juan  de  la  Pena.  The  day-light  is  not  yet  clear. 

Finally  the  eggs  are  hard,  and  the  milk  hot,  and  the 
woman  has  returned  with  the  loaf,  which  she  has  evidently 
dropped  by  the  way,  for  it  is  covered  with  mud.  By  care- 
ful trimming,  however,  she  removes  every  trace  of  dirt, 
without  losing  much  of  the  bread.  These  shavings  will 
doubtless  be  useful  later — nothing  is  wasted.  This 
woman's  hair  is  of  a  mildew  color.  She  has  a  slight  limp, 
a  harsh  voice,  a  private  mutter  deep  in  the  throat,  and 
very  large,  thick  finger-nails  with  half  halos  of  dirt. 

Shortly  before  seven,  the  old  white  mule  to  which  I 
am  gradually  becoming  attached,  (in  spite  of  a  cynical 
expression  on  his  face,  whenever  he  sees  me  coming.) 
is  before  the  wagon  and  we  are  soon  under  way  out  of 
town,  with  the  rising  sun  shining  on  the  battlements. 

JqS 


San  Juan  de  la  Pena  201 

We  turn  into  the  carretera  of  Navarre,  and  break  into 
a  trot.  Oroel  towers  before  us  with  the  sun  gilding  the 
cliffs  of  his  face.  The  mule  even  seems  affected  by 
nature's  grandeur.  I  am  beginning  to  feel  the  romantic 
influence  of  the  morning  myself  and  the  stillness  and 
the  curious  light,  when  Leopoldo  suddenly  turns  around 
and  calls  : 

"  And  the  luncheon — where  is  it  ?  "  My  heart  sinks.  I 
have  made  such  trips  before  without  luncheon  !  I  help 
him  turn  out  the  rugs  and  pry  under  the  seats.  It  is  not 
with  us. 

"  Well,  I  '11  go  back  for  it,"  he  says,  and  leaves  me 
bundled  up  in  my  rug,  and  holding  the  reins  under  one 
arm.  The  patter  of  his  feet  dies  away  in  the  distance.  It 
is  very  quiet  and  very  cold.  Black  crows  and  picarazos 
with  their  black  and  white  markings  and  long  tails  fly  about 
the  fields,  and  now  and  then  flash  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 
Behind  me  a  blue  haze  risen  from  the  kindling  of  innumer- 
able breakfast  fires,  hangs  over  the  walls  of  the  gloomy, 
silent  town.  By  and  by  I  hear  the  Huesca  coach  descend- 
ing the  hill  with  a  jangle  of  bells  and  the  cries  of  mayoral 
and  zagal  floating  back.  I  can  just  see  the  leather-hooded 
top  over  the  bank  of  the  road,  sliding  along  as  though  on 
the  surface  of  the  ground.  A  little  later,  far  down  the 
grade,  the  road  makes  a  coil  back  on  itself,  and  I  watch 
that  point  for  the  last  glimpse.  The  heavy,  lumbering  old 
affair  rolls  into  view  for  a  moment,  swings  leaning  around 
the  curve,  and  turns  out  of  sight  for  good,  in  a  cloud  of 
dust,  with  a  rattle  as  of  distant  artillery. 

Two  peasants  pass  talking  earnestly,  about  the  crops  I 
judge,  for  I  hear  one  say  "The  potatoes"-— but  lose  the 
rest.  His  companion  stops  to  give  his  donkey  a  blow  as 
he  replies,  not  with  the  idea  of  urging  him  on  at  a  faster 


202  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

gait — long  experience  has  taught  him  to  hope  for  nothing 
but  the  steady,  regular  walk — but  from  a  sort  of  contem- 
plative habit  he  has  acquired  of  striking  hind-quarters  at 
given  intervals.  These  men  have  set,  square-jawed  faces, 
and  their  motions  are  slow,  sometimes  clumsy,  but  they 
give  an  impression  of  rough  strength,  and  honest  good  na- 
ture, which  one  is  far  from  getting  in  the  southern  prov- 
inces. Here  shrewdness  takes  the  place  of  subtlety  and 
coarse  jests  that  of  the  wonderful,  instant  replies  of  the 
quick,  warm-blooded  Sevillano. 

Leopoldo  now  returns  out  of  breath,  panting  from  his 
exertions,  and  muffling  himself  up,  to  ward  off  the  cold, 
he  takes  the  reins,  and  we  start  on.  Here  and  there  the 
sheep,  gathered  in  the  night  before,  still  stand  crowded  in 
their  folds,  looking  very  cold,  and  waiting  patiently  for  the 
bars  to  be  thrown  down.  We  cross  the  small  river  Gas, 
as  Leopoldo  calls  it,  and  keeping  on  down  the  valley  of 
the  Aragon,  pass  the  usual  solitary,  ruined  tower  in  a  break 
of  the  hills  on  the  left. 

At  8.30  we  stop  at  a  little  venta  and  unharness  our 
mule.  We  have  reached  the  limits  of  the  carriage 
road,  and  must  ride  and  walk  the  rest.  My  affection 
for  the  old  white  animal  with  the  upper  half  of  his  body 
close  shaven,  grows  deeper  as  we  go  on  up  the  Barranca 
de  Santa  Cruz,  Leopoldo  walking  ahead,  muffled  in  his 
cloak,  a  fitful  blue  line  of  tobacco-smoke  floating  out  now, 
and  again,  from  his  cigarillo.  We  soon  come  to  an  open- 
ing, a  sort  of  enclosed  valley,  and  going  through,  pass  by  a 
curious  ridge  of  rocks,  which  comes  sheer  down  from  the 
side  of  the  hills  like  the  broken,  upturned  edge  of  a  gigan- 
tic razor.  Rising  high  into  the  air,  and  only  a  few  feet  in 
thickness,  it  runs  down  the  slope,  and  suggests  the  remains 
of  an  ancient  wall. 


San  Juan  de  la  Pena  203 

Far  ahead  the  row  of  washed  cliffs  stand  out,  blocking 
the  sky  view  up  the  valley,  and  as  we  turn  a  corner  a  group 
of  peasants,  driving  burros,  with  plows  strapped  upside 
down  on  their  backs,  come  in  sight,  and  about  twenty  yards 
ahead  of  them,  like  a  drum-major  heading  his  band,  with 
great,  white-ringed,  staring  eyes  set  under  gigantic  ears, 
comes  a  small,  grotesque  donkey. 

His  look  of  astonishment  is  splendid.  For  a  moment 
he  gazes  at  us,  all  four  feet  planted  apart,  and  then  poking 
out  his  nose,  but  keeping  both  his  eyes  wide  open,  begins 
to  send  forth  that  series  of  noises  not  to  be  produced  by 
other  lungs. 

We  rise  now  into  the  district  of  box-wood,  which  here 
covers  the  hills,  and  pass  a  very  small  shrine  behind  a 
wooden  lattice,  with  a  glimpse  of  the  Virgin  in  a  dirt- 
smeared  glass  case  inside. 

It  grows  colder  as  we  rise,  until  Santa  Cruz  comes  in 

o 

sight  below  us,  and  Oroel  towers  far  off  on  the  left. 
Higher,  the  peaks  beyond  the  Aragon,  toward  France, 
come  in  sight.  On  the  mountains  beyond  Oroel  there  is 
snow.  Through  a  narrow  gorge  of  composite  rock,  then 
zig-zag  up  the  face  of  the  cliff,  the  mule  goes  very  slowly 
and  carefully  among  the  rolling  stones,  until  the  sun 
strikes  us  in  the  face,  and  we  turn  and  enter  a  forest. 
This,  after  a  short,  cool  ride,  is  passed,  and  we  come  out 
on  a  level,  in  the  centre  of  which  appears  a  long,  low 
building. 

We  have  reached  the  so-called  New  Convent,  although 
itself  old  enough  to  be  in  ruins,  and  now  all  but  deserted, 
its  former  inhabitants  reduced  to  a  single  family.  As  we 
ride  up  to  the  main  entrance  a  child  and  two  puppy  hounds 
fly  in  terror,  the  latter  barking  vigorously.  A  woman  with 
a  shy,  nun-like  face  greets  us  at  the  door,  and  we  pass  into 


204  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

the  entrance  of  the  main  hall,  and  the  part  occupied  by  the 
present  inhabitants. 

Some  writing  on  the  wall  opposite  the  door  catches 
my  attention.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  I  ask  the  woman.  "  Some- 
thing to  do  with  the  congress  that  came,"  she  says,  in  a 
timid  and  very  gentle  voice  ;  "  but  my  husband  can  tell 
you  all  about  it."  He  appears,  and  explains  that  there 
has  been  a  French  and  Spanish  congress  here  some  time 


THE  NEW  MONASTERY 


past,  which  I  judge  was  about  the  new  railroad.  The  man 
could  not  read. 

As  I  am  anxious  to  see  the  monastery  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, we  do  not  wait  to  take  breakfast ;  but,  securing  the 
service  of  a  good-natured  looking  boy  who  has  the  keys, 
we  start  for  the  real  object  of  the  journey,  the  cave. 

Entering  the  forest  once  more,  somewhat  to  the  left  of 
where  we  had  first  come  on  the  open  ground,  we  begin  a 
descent  of  perhaps  fifteen  minutes  through  a  thick  pine 
growth,  swinging  slowly  to  the  left  until,  passing  along 
the  side  of  the  gorge,  the  cliffs  above  and  in  front  come 


San  Juan  de  la  Pena  205 

into  sight.  Then,  turning  sharply,  the  monastery  is  be- 
fore us. 

There  it  stands,  crouched  under  the  over-hanging  ledge 
of  the  composite  rock,  looking  out  between  the  walls  of  the 
narrow  valley  towards  the  plains  below,  solemn  and  silent, 
the  last  resting-place  of  the  ancient  kings  of  Aragon. 

The  historical  interest  attached  to  this  building  can 
scarcely  be  over-estimated,  although  the  graves  here  are 
not  those  of  men  whose  memories  the  world  has  been  at 
great  pains  to  keep  fresh.  But  when  the  lives  of  these 
shall  have  all  been  more  fully  examined  and  the  details 
laid  bare,  perhaps  this  little  heap  of  royal  bones  may  gain 
the  attention  it  deserves. 

The  monastery  of  San  Juan  de  la  Pena  is  historically 
the  most  important  of  all  the  ancient  kingdom  of  Aragon. 
There,  according  to  the  tradition,  the  Saints  Voto  and 
Felix  of  Zara^oza  laid  the  corner-stone  of  the  Arag-onese 

o  o 

Re-conquest,  and  there  a  handful  of  men,  fragments  of 
what  had  been  a  part  of  the  Spanish  nation,  gathered  to- 
gether about  their  new  king-elect,  Garci  Ximenez.  From 
such  mountain  clefts  and  caverns  as  this  was  the  new  na- 
tion to  take  its  source,  and  such  names  as  San  Juan  and 
Covandonga  ring  with  no  uncertain  sound  in  the  memory 
of  the  Peninsula. 

St.  Hubertus  of  Luettich  met  a  wonderful  stag  in  the 
forest  with  a  blazing  golden  cross  between  his  antlers  and 
was  a  changed  man  from  that  day.  St.  Voto  of  Zara- 
goza  went  hunting  in  the  mountains  about  Jaca,  and  a 
fleeing  stag  drew  him  to  the  edge  of  a  great  cliff  beneath 
which  lay  hid  a  deep  cave. 

The  Saint  dashed  upon  his  quarry,  forcing  the  latter 
over  the  precipice  and  all  but  following  himself,  so  head- 
long was  his  speed. 


206  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

With  great  presence  of  mind  however  he  prayed  fer- 
vently to  St.  John,  and  in  the  nick  of  time  his  horse  was 
stopped  miraculously  upon  the  verge  and  he  was  enabled 
to  dismount  in  safety.  As  he  did  so  he  perceived  the 
cave  beneath  him. 

The  descent  was  steep  and  dangerous,  dense  under- 
growth checked  him,  and  the  foothold  was  treacherous. 
At  last,  however,  he  cut  or  forced  a  way  into  the  cave 
and  found  a  fountain  of  clear  water  at  which,  says  the 
chronicle,  he  thought  none  but  the  wild  creatures  of  those 
hills  had  ever  drunk. 

But  he  soon  found  a  small  hermitage,  and  coming  to 
the  door,  saw  the  body  of  an  old  man  whose  head  rested 
upon  a  stone.  On  this  stone  was  carved  his  story. 

So  moved  was  the  pious  Voto  on  reading  this  record 
that,  after  burying  the  sacred  remains,  he  fell  praying  and 
pondering  for  a  considerable  time,  after  which  he  returned 
to  Zaragoza  and  communicated  to  his  brother  Felix,  a 
pious  soul  like  himself,  his  wonderful  discovery,  telling 
him,  moreover,  that  he  had  formed  the  resolution  of 
spending  the  rest  of  his  days  on  that  holy  spot. 

Felix  at  once  joined  with  his  brother.  They  were 
rich  and  of  noble  lineage  but  they  sold  all,  and  dividing 
the  proceeds  among  the  poor  Christians  living  under  the 
Moorish  rule,  they  betook  themselves  to  their  mountain 
cave,  constructed  two  small  cells,  and  there  under  the  tor- 
ments of  cold  and  hunger  and  solitude  and  even  the 
temptation  of  devils  they  passed  the  rest  of  their  lives. 

At  their  death  those  who  buried  them  perceived  most 
strange  things,  among  others  a  wonderful  light  which 
came  down  from  heaven  itself.  Their  day  in  the  Calendar 
is  the  29th  of  May. 

"  Here,"  says  a  writer,  "the  race  of  invincibles  arose  ; 


San  Juan  de  la  Pena  207 

here  was  formed  the  Aragonese  character,  and  here  justice 
grew  up  under  such  names  as  Sancho,  Ifiigo,  Ramiro, 
Pedro,  the  Jaimes  and  the  Alfonsos." 

The  younger  and  greater  in  extent  of  the  two  monas- 
teries was  constructed  as  a  result  of  a  fire,  the  last  of 
several,  in  1675,  and  the  monks,  no  longer  in  fear  of  an 
ever-ready  enemy,  were  this  time  at  liberty  to  seek  a 
higher,  dryer  and  more  suitable  situation.  The  accusa- 
tion has  even  been  made  that  the  fires  in  the  older  build- 
ing were  not  so  much  the  result  of  chance  as  of  the 
rheumatic  joints  of  the  fathers,  who  were  so  long  forced 
to  dwell  shut  in  under  their  damp,  over-hanging  crag, 
surrounded  by  the  wild,  dense  forest  above  which  their 
view  was  ever  outward  toward  the  desolate  snow-covered 
wall  of  the  Pyrenees. 

At  the  time  of  the  monks,  these  dense  masses  of  pines 
filling  the  abrupt  and  broken  barranca  below  were  every- 
where intersected  by  pleasant  walks  and  lanes,  of  which, 
however,  no  traces  are  now  visible.  The  grandeur  and 
deep  stillness  make  a  profound  impression  as  we  go  slowly 
through  the  untouched  wilderness,  and  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  the  building  has  something  awe-inspiring  in  it. 

As  we  draw  nearer  the  great  overhanging  wall  of  the 
cliff  seems  to  advance  upon  us,  looking  like  the  lip  of  some 
gigantic  mouth,  stayed  a  moment  before  it  closes  forever 
upon  the  already  half-engulfed  building.  Were  the  latter 
swept  away  we  should  find  ourselves  before  a  great  fissure 
two  hundred  metres  in  length  by  fifty  in  depth  and 
stretching  open  some  fourteen  metres. 

Many  indeed  are  the  kings  and  grandees  whom  these 
low,  dull  walls  have  welcomed.  Many  a  time  has  the 
echo  of  rattling  arms,  or  the  tinkling  bells  of  the  capari- 
soned mules,  been  awakened  in  the  rows  of  narrow  cells 


208 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


of  the  monks,  or  in  the  more  imposing  apartments  of  the 
Abbot  himself.  In  the  great  library,  where  afterwards 
books  were  printed,  and  in  the  broad  garden,  royal  feet 
have  passed  or  rested,  and  many  a  war  council  has  been 
held  of  which  history  has  all  but  forgotten  to  make  men- 
tion. Hospital,  garden,  library,  monks  or  Abbot — little 
of  all  these  remains,  little  indeed  more  than  the  very  stone 
walls  themselves  and  the  heaped  up  bones  in  their  damp 
cellars,  or  behind  rust-eaten  gratings. 

The  building,  in- 
side, is  interesting, 
but  in  no  way  strik- 
ing. The  long, 
curved  depression 
in  the  side  of  the 
rock  into  which  it  is 
built,  is  hardly  deep 
enough  to  be  called 
a  cave.  The  greater 
portion  of  the  struc- 
ture is  outside,  the 
older  being  the  deeper.  The  roof  under  the  ledge  stands 
open  although  this  does  not  appear  from  without,  for  the 
line  of  sight  brings  the  rock  and  roof  seemingly  together. 
As  we  enter  the  monastery,  on  the  right  is  the  so-called 
Hall  of  Council,  where  the  chief  interest  at  once  centres 
on  the  line  of  moulded  and  damp-destroyed  tombs. 
From  before  the  door  here,  rises  the  stairway,  once  of 
stone,  now  wood,  and  at  the  end  of  it,  the  hall  containing 
the  tombs  of  the  ancient  nobility  of  Aragon.  These 
tombs  are  of  the  utmost  interest.  They  are  in  two  rows 
of  Byzantine  arches,  one  above  the  other,  are  twenty-six 
in  number,  and  may  date  from  before  the  year  1000. 


A  CHAPEL  OF  SAN  JUAN. 


San  Juan  de  la  Pena 


209 


The  uniformity  of  the  plan  of  these  arched  tombs 
would  seem  to  indicate  that  they  were  erected  simul- 
taneously, which  may  indeed  have  been  the  case,  with  the 
same  intent,  at  that  early  date,  of  forming  a  national  sepul- 
chre, as  that  which  prompted  the  restoration  of  1770. 


EARLY  TOMBS 


Many  of  the  tombs,  however,  have  been  opened,  and 
no  doubt  rifled  of  such  valuables  as  they  may  have  con- 
tained ;  even  the  bodies  in  some  instances  have  vanished. 
But  that  this  rifling  should  have  taken  place  is  in  no  way 
to  be  wondered  at,  and  the  archaeologist  may  be  thankful 
indeed,  that  after  much  puzzling  and  conjecture  he  is  able 
to  read  such  names  as  those  of  the  Etenzas,  Ferrenches 
de  Luna,  the  Garceses  and  others  so  often  repeated  in 
the  chronicles  of  their  times. 

Here,    too,    lies   the    Count    of    Aranda,   Minister  of 


210  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


Charles  III.,  whose  long-suffering  bones  were  made  to 
journey  to  the  court,  to  form  part  of  that  conclave  of 
remains  of  kings  and  celebrities,  which  it  was  once  the 
eager  plan  to  unite  at  the  national  capital.  But  when 
the  plan  came  to  naught — as  plans  sometimes  do  in  Spain 
— and  each  province  once  more  loudly  claimed  her  own 
illustrious  dead,  then  were  the  bones  of  the  Count  of 
Aranda  gath- 
ered anew  and 
honorably  re- 
turned to  their 
long-time  rest- 
ing-place, and 
a  slab  relating 
their  journey- 
ing placed  in 
plain  view  of 
the  curious. 

The  mon- 
astery of  San 
Juan  possesses 
a  tomb  which 
has  puzzled 
more  than  one 
historian.  In 
an  inscription 
we  are  told  that 
Dona  Ximena, 
daughter  of 
King  Sancho 
and  wife  of  the  Cid  Campeador,  is  buried  in  this  spot,  and 
that  her  body  was  here  brought  in  1122.  We  are,  however, 
taught  to  believe  that  her  other  body  is  still  at  Burgos. 


ROYAL  BURIAL  CHAMBER 


San  Juan  de  la  Pena  2 1 1 

We  now  reach  a  door  of  walnut  carved  with  the  arms 
of  Aragon,  and  above  which  two  angels  with  trumpets 
support  a  slab  on  which  is  inscribed  : 

In  this  worthy  monument, 
The  noble  liberators  of  their  country \ 
And  defenders  of  the  true  faith 

In  hither  Spain 
Are  guarded  with  veneration. 

This,  then,  at  last,  is  the  entrance  to  what  we  have 
come  to  see  ;  this,  the  sacristy  of  the  ancient  church. 
Here  we  are  at  the  portal  of  the  spot  where  five  centuries 
of  monarchs  of  Aragon  and  Navarre  have  been  buried. 
Beyond  that  door,  in  all  the  severe  simplicity  of  Gothic 
or  Byzantine,  we  shall  see  the  last  resting-place  of  no  less 
than  thirty-two  royal  bodies !  Thirty-two  noble  names 
which,  were  space  unlimited,  we  might  print  down  the 
page. 

And  then  we  enter.  Alas  !  the  dream  has  flown  as  we 
cross  the  threshold  above  which  sit  those  trumpet-bear- 
ing angels.  We  are  in  a  long,  narrow,  high  room.  On 
the  left  wall  large  reliefs  give  detailed  portrayals  of  the 
early  battles  of  the  Re-conquest.  Those  nearest  the  altar 
represent  the  encounter  of  Garci  Ximenez  and  Ifiigo 
Arista  ;  the  third,  the  king  swearing  to  the  charters  and 
the  laws  in  presence  of  clergy  and  nobility.  These  three 
are  between  the  pilasters  on  the  left,  and  are  of  stucco. 
They  are  difficult  to  see  well,  owing  to  the  bad  light. 

The  figures  of  the  altar,  however,  are  of  finest  Car- 
rara marble,  by  the  sculptor  Salas.  The  bronze  and  pol- 
ished surfaces  gleam  on  every  side,  but  dignity  is  wanting. 
There  is  no  simplicity,  no  grandeur,  no  effect. 

Before  us,  at  the  farther  end,  the  church  has  taken  up 


212  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


her  place  of  vantage,  with  altar  and  marble  crucifix,  the 
slanting  light  falling  across  it  from  above,  to  strike  upon 
the  long  rows  of  bronze  plates,  twenty-seven  in  number, 
behind  which  in  1770,  by  order  of  Charles  III.,  were  im- 
prisoned for  all  time 
— unless  some  other 
king  reconsider  it— 
the  bones  of  the  mon- 
archs  of  the  north. 
Unlodged  indeed, 
they  were,  or  almost 
so,  for  this  place,  the 
ancient  sacristy  of  the 
church,  was  all  but  a 
mouldering  heap,  with 
time  and  dampness, 
when  the  good-inten- 
tioned  king  turned  his 
attention  to  its  resto- 
ration. 

On  the  floor,  mark- 
ing the  spot  where 
twelve  tombs  have 
been  united  in  a  sin- 
gle one,  is  written :  Hie  jacet  famulus  Dei  .  .  . 
Rex. 

The  ancient  church  dedicated  to  St.  John  was  fin- 
ished and  consecrated  by  Pedro  I.,  whose  father,  killed 
before  Huesca,  had  begun  it.  Finished  and  consecrated 
on  the  same  day,  Dec.  4,  1094,  the  dead  king's  body  was 
deposited  in  it,  and  the  Archbishop  Amato,  papal  Legate 
of  Urban  II.,  performed  the  ceremony  of  consecration. 
The  edifice,  crouching  beneath  its  over-hanging  rock, 


GOTHIC  DOORWAY. 


San  Juan  de  la  Pefia 


213 


is  seventy  paces  long.  Behind  its  three  Byzantine  arches 
the  gaudy  retablos  strike  the  eye  with  barbaric  glitter  from 
the  dark. 

Below  there  is  yet  another  older  church  dating  from 
before  842.  Two  naves  of  narrow  arches  are  sustained 
on  short  heavy  columns. 

There  is  a  door  in  the  building  which  must  be  exam- 
ined with  some  care  for  it  brings  to  us,  suddenly,  amid 
this  grave  picture  of  Christian  domination,  a  lighter,  more 
graceful  impression.  Even  here  an  influence  out  of 
the  far  East  has  been  felt  and  marked  in  stone,  just  as 
it  has  in  almost  every 
part  of  Spain.  It  is 
the  door  which  unites 
the  church  with  the 
cloister,  and  it  has  the 
delicate  curve  of  the 
horseshoe  arch.  Above 
it  this  sentiment  is 
given  in  Latin : 


"  By  this  portal  to  Heaven 

the  faithful  pass 
If,  beside  the  Faith,  they 
guard  the  laws." 

The  bodies   of   the 
abbots    of     San     Juan 
rest   in   the   Chapel    of   1 
San  Victorian  which  is 
Gothic  and  most  inter- 


DOOR  OF  THE  FAITHFUL. 


estmg. 

What  remains  of  the  cloisters  is  of  the  best  of  its  kind. 
They  cover  about  1 2  by  20  metres,  and  part  of  this  has  been 


214  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

repaired  in  a  coarse  manner  with  brick.  The  arches  them- 
selves are  excellent.  Straight  double  columns  with  elab- 
orately carved  capitals  enclose  the  little  garden,  and  upon 
the  whole  falls  a  subdued,  religious  light.  Of  the  faces 
of  the  cloister,  that  to  the  south  has  suffered  much,  but 
the  western  one,  with  its  fantastic  details  and  grand  heavy 
manner  in  the  capitals,  is  still  excellent. 

I  sit  on  the  edge  of  the  altar  and  note  the  names  on 
the  brass  plates,  while  the  two  puppies  chase  each  other 
about  the  building,  and  the  boy  and  my  driver  utter  under- 
tone comments  on  what  I  am  doing. 

After  a  careful  examination  we  return  to  the  new  mon- 
astery and  continue  our  voyage  of  discovery.  The  church 
looks  dismal  enough,  and  in  the  old  halls  of  the  monks  the 
plaster  is  falling  and  the  doors  of  their  sleeping-rooms 
stand  half  open  as  though  they  had  only  just  left.  After 
breakfast  and  a  walk  about  the  open  space  on  which  the 
building  stands,  we  start  down  again,  saying  good-bye  to 
everybody,  and  are  soon  passing  once  more  through  the 
box,  enebro,  herizones  and  ha$aga\  which  line  the  pathway. 

We  reach  the  house  where  our  carriage  has  been  left 
at  a  quarter  to  three,  and  here  Leopoldo  begins  to  make 
up  for  sparing  use  of  the  wine-skin.  A  few  peasants  gather 
about  the  door,  and  the  drinking  and  merriment  go  on 
for  half  an  hour.  There  is  the  usual,  big,  good-natured 
fellow  who  treats  everybody  and  drinks  almost  a  full  skin 
himself. 

Two  hours  later  we  are  in  Jaca  once  more,  and  at  six 
my  dinner  is  ready,  and  I  am  making  preparations  for  the 
ascent  of  Oroel  in  the  morning  and  seeing  the  Virgin  of 
the  Cave,  on  the  other  side,  where  tradition  has  it  that 
the  independence  of  Sobrarbe  was  proclaimed. 

It  is  dark  by  this  time.      The  old  landlady,  who  has 


The  Cave  of  the  Virgin 


217 


charge  of  the  coaches,  has  only  just  finished  her  moving 
and  is  in  the  midst  of  a  confused  heap  of  boxes,  bales, 
chairs,  tables  and  pans. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  caballero"  she  exclaims,  as  she 
draws  out  a  chair  for  me  in  the  centre,  with  my  back  to 
the  hearth-stone  (which  fills  a  quarter  of  the  room)  and 
there,  surrounded  by  her  staff  and  camp  followers,  pre- 
pares to  do  battle  for  the  price  of  new  expeditions. 

On  Tuesday,  the  4th  of  October,  we  were  out  of  town 
by  half-past  six  and  under  way  to  the  Cave  of  the  Virgin. 
We  descended  into  the  valley  in  the  face  of  a  chilling 
wind,  and  started  for  the  spine  of  Oroel,  stretching  far 
back  and  away  from  the  cliff  ahead. 

At  an  iron  cross,  mounted  on  a  brick  column,  the  road 
forked.     We  took  the  right,  picking  our  way  across  a  half- 
ruined,  double-arched,  stone  bridge,  beyond  which  began 
the  ascent.     Yet    al- 
ready in  the  clear,  icy    mm 
water,    the  washer- 
worn  e  n,     with     red 
arms,  were  plunging 
their  clothes,   and 
along  the  bank  above 
an  old  man  with  two 
mules   was    painfully 
ploughing    on    the 
sharp    angle    of   the 

hillside.  WASHERWOMEN 

A  little  farther  on 

we  met  another  stray  donkey,  larger  and  older  than  the 
one  of  yesterday  and  with  less  of  the  latter's  expression  of 
surprise.  He  had  already,  perhaps,  tasted  some  of  the  sor- 


2i8  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

rows  of  Spanish  donkey  existence,  and  was  slowly  assum- 
ing that  dignified  indifference  which  is  his  universal  stamp. 

"  More  rain,"  says  a  man  by  the  wayside,  and  Leopoldo 
nods  solemnly  under  his  mufHings.  It  is  a  dark,  cold  day, 
and  the  wind  comes  in  puffs,  sharp  and  piercing.  We  cross 
the  level  to  Maros  and  begin  to  climb  again.  The  massive 
form  of  Oroel,  its  outline  like  that  of  a  great  Egyptian 
face,  stands  out  clear  and  cold  above,  staring  down  the 
valley  of  the  Aragon  towards  Navarre,  just  as  it  stood 
when,  from  the  monastery  of  Leyre,  Sancho  the  Great, 
stopping  for  a  moment  in  his  rapid  march  to  Ribagorza, 
and  La  Ainsa  to  meet  the  rebel  Counts  and  defeat  them, 
might  have  seen  it  towering  in  the  distance. 

Near  a  small  town,  with  a  bold,  square  church  tower, 
we  pass  through  a  lane  bordered  by  a  field  of  black 
grapes.  Soon  we  reach  the  second  rise,  and  approach  the 
break  in  the  mountain.  A  great,  gray,  washed  gorge 
lies  below.  In  front,  high  above  us,  stretches  a  solemn 
forest  through  which  we  slowly  ascend.  Far  ahead,  on 
the  utmost  sky-edge  of  the  cliff,  the  faint  outlines  of  a 
wooden  cross  can  be  seen  marked  against  the  gray  clouds, 
dizzying  to  look  up  to  as  the  path  grows  steeper,  turn- 
ing back  upon  itself  at  every  few  yards. 

We  pass  through  the  pines,  and  on.  Leopoldo  stops, 
loosens  a  heavy  stone  and  starts  it  rolling,  bounding, 
crashing,  down  the  dry  bed  of  a  torrent.  It  disappears  at 
last  in  the  pine  forest  directly  beneath  us,  followed  by  an 
angry  hiss  and  swish  of  branches  and  a  farewell  thud  and 
growl.  Then  a  goat-bell  tinkles  overhead,  the  sound  in- 
tensified by  the  stillness. 

After  steady  climbing,  we  reach  the  cross  and  pass  out 
upon  the  top  of  Oroel.  The  view  below  is  magnificent. 
As  we  stand  there  looking  down  on  the  red,  plowed  fields, 


The  Cave  of  the  Virgin  219 

a  dark  shadow  appears  from  beyond  the  mountain  and  a 
magnificent  eagle  sweeps  past  us  not  fifty  yards  away. 
He  turns  his  head  a  little  to  look  at  us,  and  then  sails 
majestically  out  over  the  tremendous  abyss.  It  is  worth 
a  hundred  climbs  to  see  him  take  that  long,  silent  plunge. 
Not  a  feather  seems  to  stir,  there  is  not  a  motion  of  the 
broad  wings — steadily  and  with  fearful  velocity  he  sweeps 
on  moving  his  head  now  and  then  as  he  watches  the  val- 
ley. As  I  stand  and  watch  him  out  of  sight  I  seem  to 
hear  the  wind  whistle  over  the  outstretched  wings  and  the 
hiss  of  the  quivering  feathers  at  their  edges.  And  the 
words  of  the  great  poet  come  back  :  "  She  dwelleth  and 
abideth  on  the  rock,  upon  the  crag  of  the  rock,  and  the 
strong  place,  From  thence  she  seeketh  the  prey,  and  her 
eyes  behold  afar  off.  Her  young  ones  also  suck  up  blood  ; 
and  where  the  slain  are,  there  is  she." 

From  the  highest  point  the  view  is  even  grander.  The 
country  towards  San  Juan  de  la  Pen" a  is  clearly  marked, 
and  the  view  down  the  Aragon  wonderfully  impressive. 
Jaca  lies  to  the  right,  and  behind  it  the  pass  of  Canfranc, 
with  only  Castillo  in  sight  near  its  entrance.  It  is  through 
that  pass  that  the  railroad  to  Pau  is  to  be  built,  to  put  an 
end  to  the  individuality  of  the  place  and  bring  upon  it  the 
blight  of  the  tourist. 

We  now  begin  the  descent  of  the  other  side  where  the 
cave  lies,  by  a  sharp  declivity,  through  box,  brush  and  a 
second  scanty  pine  forest,  and  soon  come  upon  a  square 
building,  from  the  upper  windows  of  which  a  man  is  lean- 
ing— the  individual  who  has  gone  up  ahead  to  open  the 
place. 

The  cave  is  now  seen  for  the  first  time — not  unlike  a 
huge,  half-open,  toothless  mouth.  At  one  end,  a  part  has 
been  walled  up  to  form  the  church,  inside  which  is  an 


220  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

altar,  covered  with  the  usual  tawdry  ornaments.  Only- 
half  visible  in  the  sombre  light,  and  fenced  off  by  a  grat- 
ing, is  a  fountain  of  clear,  cold  water,  falling  into  a  basin 
encrusted  with  a  deposit  which  hangs  over  the  sides. 

A  careful  and  detailed  examination  of  this  birthplace 
of  the  ancient  kingdom  of  Aragon  is  not  an  extensive  or 
exhausting  undertaking  and  may  be  well  clone  in  a  few 
minutes.  We  devote  an  hour  to  it,  however,  and  then, 
after  disposing  of  a  chicken,  start  back,  the  man  who  pre- 
ceded us  returning  with  us.  A  good  type  of  these  strong 
northern  people  he  is  ;  people  who  here  stood  their  ground 
well  against  the  Moors,  and  a  curious  contrast  he  makes 
to  Leopoldo.  The  latter  with  his  light,  delicate,  refined 
body,  clear-cut  features,  and  soft  womanish  mouth  with 
scarcely  a  trace  of  beard  or  moustache,  has  indeed  little  in 
common  with  the  ruggedly  built,  heavy-paced  man  beside 
him,  on  whose  clean  shaven  face  the  muscles  and  deep 
lines  are  alternately  marked,  and  whose  firm,  square  chin, 
large,  powerful  mouth,  keen  eyes  set  far  apart  and  steady, 
unyielding  carriage,  mark  him  the  mountain  Spaniard  of 
to-day  as  of  yesterday.  Here  are  the  two  types  of  Moor 
and  Goth,  as  clearly  defined  as  if  we  were  still  in  the  loth 
century. 


XIV 
LEYRE— PAMPLONA 

TWENTY  minutes  past  four  A.  M.  The  white  mule  and 
another  stand  shiveringly  huddled  together,  har- 
nessed to  the  light  wagon  at  the  door  of  the  hotel.  It  is 
perfectly  dark  and  cold  enough  to  make  our  rugs  welcome. 
The  girl  with  sleepy  eyes  stands  holding  the  flickering  lan- 
tern which  casts  long,  waving  shadows  into  the  silent  side- 
street  beyond.  At  last,  with  a  final  "  Adios  !  "  replied  to 
by  a  wave  of  the  lantern,  we  clatter  out  along  the  Calle 
Mayor  to  the  city  gate,  where  the  guard  looms  up  indis- 
tinctly, his  face  partly  illumined  by  the  light  of  his  cigar. 
The  Sereno  stands  near  him  muttering  something  while  he 
peers  up  at  us  as  we  pass.  I  have  heard  him  earlier  in 
the  night,  crying  the  hours  and  weather  and  once  or  twice 
the  ominous  nublado  or  lloviendo  has  made  me  dread  a  bad 
day,  a  fear  to  be  realized. 

A  few  stars  shine  dimly  with  a  bleared,  uncertain  light, 
and  on  Oroel  there  is  a  heavy,  white  mist,  soon  touched 
and  given  a  blue,  ghastly  color  by  a  few  faint  traces  of 
dawn.  At  6.30  we  cross  the  Aragon  on  a  six-arched 
bridge,  and  approach  Verdun  in  a  fine  rain. 

"  Senores — Senores"  calls  a  voice  to  the  left,  and  a  tall 
man  with  soft,  curly  hair  and  a  skin  as  brown  as  a  negro's 
comes  out  from  a  low  shed,  which  stands  alone  in  a  broad, 
desolate  field. 


222 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


"  Cigarros,  Senores — Do  me  the  great  favor.    We  have 
been  without  them  these  two  days."      He  takes  off  his  hat 
with  a  smile.      His  companion  stands  in  the  doorway  in 
the  distance.      Leopoldo  hands  him  several  cigarettes,  and 
he  bows  gracefully  and  retires. 
"  A  gypsy  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  There  are  many  here  ?  " 
"  Plenty,  plenty,  more  than  we  want." 
"  How  do  they  make  a  living  ?  " 
"  Make  a  living  ! — they  steal." 
"You  imprison  them?" 

"  Ca  !  No.   What  good  would  that  do — they  would  eat 
and  drink  at  the  expense  of  the  Government,  which  is  all 

they  want."  It  is  raining 
now  in  torrents,  and  we 
splash  along  solemnly. 

"  Good  for  the  sowing," 
says  Leopoldo  philosophic- 
ally, pulling  his  blanket  over 
his  head.  We  stop  at  last 
at  a  carpenter's  shop  to  feed 
the  mules  and  escape  the 
rain.  Upstairs  there  is  a 
fire,  and,  at  the  invitation 
of  the  old  man  at  the  door- 
way, we  go  up.  By  the 
small  blaze  sits  a  woman  of 
perhaps  twenty  with  a  young 
baby  on  her  lap. 

"  Five  months  old,"  an- 
swers the  father  to  my  question,  lighting  a  cigarette. 
The  woman  is  almost  beautiful,  with  a  sad,  worn  face. 


A  SPANISH  GYPSY 


Leyre — Pamplona  223 

There  is  something  peculiarly  alluring,  too,  in  the  accent 
of  these  peasants.  The  pronunciation  of  the  final  "a" 
has  a  curious,  mournful  sound,  conveying  in  some  way 
an  idea  of  refinement  and  delicacy,  out  of  keeping  with 
the  confusion  of  noises  which  rises  through  the  chinks 
of  the  floor.  Below,  dogs  growl  and  bark,  and  hogs 
grunt  unceasingly  amid  the  quacking  and  cackle  of  ducks 
and  hens.  As  we  go  down  the  creaking  stair  a  large 
goat  eyes  us  inquisitively.  We  soon  start  on,  leaving  the 
men  just  sitting  down  to  their  dinner,  of  which  they  had 
urged  us  to  partake.  I  shall  not  forget  that  simple  interior 
with  its  festoons  of  beans  and  onions,  the  fire,  with  pots 
and  kettle  huddled  about  it,  the  brown  walls,  the  open 
planking  of  the  floor,  through  which  the  wind  whistled, 
and  the  carpenter's  shop  knee-deep  in  shavings,  the  pots 
and  pans  each  upon  its  nail,  and,  more  than  all,  the 
mother  and  child.  The  last  I  see  of  her  she  has  come 
to  the  lower  door,  and  is  standing,  with  the  baby  in  her 
arms,  watching  us  drive  away  up  the  rain-washed  road. 
Then  a  turn  hides  her,  and  we  sink  down  under  our 
blankets  once  more. 

Verdun  stands  on  the  crest  of  an  abrupt  knoll,  the  road 
going  straight  up  to  its  foot,  and  then  turning  to  the  left. 
The  church  tower  rises  from  the  centre  and  on  the  left  is 
a  high,  black  butte  covered  with  pines.  We  turn  and,  skirt- 
ing the  town  on  our  right,  come  into  more  broken  country, 
cross  the  Veral  River  on  another  broad,  stone  bridge  of 
five  arches,  and  at  ten  are  driving  along  under  an  abrupt 
mountain  range,  capped  with  a  sheer  wall  of  rock.  Dull, 
lead-colored  clouds  hang  above  it  and  upon  it,  and  almost 
reach  the  face  of  the  cliff.  One  might  fancy  a  battle  upon 
the  top,  the  armies  hidden  beneath  great,  rolling  masses 
of  smoke.  This  is  the  Sierra  de  Leyre  and  we  are  draw- 


224  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

ing  near  the  famous  convent.  Oroel  is  still  in  sight  be- 
hind us. 

We  pass  another  house  of  gypsies,  a  few  hundred  feet 
before  crossing  the  Esco  on  a  stone  bridge  of  three  arches, 
and  then  swing  off  and  up  to  the  level  of  the  foot  hills  on 
the  other  side. 

"  A  noche  te  vi  la  card — a — a — a — 
Por  la  luz  de  mi  cigarro — o — o — o — 
No  he  visto  car  a  mas  bonitd — a  —  a — a — 
Ni  clave  I  mas  encarnado — o — o — o — " 

sings  Leopoldo,  impelled  perhaps  by  the  sight  of  a  pair 
of  black  eyes  in  the  gypsy  doorway.  We  pass  Esco, 
perched  among  the  foothills  and  half  hidden,  behind 
a  low,  bare  knoll,  the  church  dominating  it  and  the 
houses  stringing  down  from  it,  in  a  long,  irregular  group. 
It  is  a  small,  but  rather  picturesque  little  place.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  Aragon,  a  little  farther  down,  ruined 
towers  appear  in  a  break  in  the  hills,  and  behind,  out  of 
sight,  lies  Ruesta. 

All  along  here,  at  intervals,  one  sees  small  heaps  on 
the  plowed  land  ;  brush  (box,  hallaga,  etc.),  dried  through 
the  summer,  and  at  this  season  piled  in  little  mounds  (hor- 
migueros]  upon  the  fields.  After  sprinkling  these  on  top 
with  earth,  the  brush  is  lighted,  and  the  whole  reduced  to 
a  mixture  of  earth  and  ashes,  which  is  then  scattered  over 
the  land  as  fertilizer. 

At  about  eleven  we  sight  Tiermas.  It  is  somewhat 
higher  than  Verdun,  and  upon  a  more  abrupt  hill,  stand- 
ing on  the  right  of  the  valley,  with  a  square  church  tower, 
as  usual,  in  the  centre.  Below  and  beyond,  by  the  river, 
rises  a  slate-colored,  water-washed  cliff ;  and  behind,  on 
the  right,  stand  the  bold,  black  walls  of  the  sierra. 

The  green  water  is  running  quietly  below  the  three 


Leyre — Pamplona  225 

great  stone  arches  of  a  bridge  near  which  we  come  to  a 
halt,  before  the  Posada  de  la  Guama.  Leaving  Leopoldo 
with  the  team  and  trap,  I  walk  along  the  highway,  around 
the  hill  to  the  other  side,  and  then  climb  up  through  the 
town  which  stands  on  the  top  of  a  sharp  knoll,  and  is  a 
well-preserved  remnant  of  the  days  when  safety  was  only 
to  be  found  in  a  fortified  place. 

The  solemn  sadness  of  desertion  and  decay  fill  the 
lonely,  brokenly-paved  streets.  Nothing  is  to  be  seen 
but  signs  of  neglect  and  poverty,  and  even  the  dozen  rag- 
ged, forlorn-looking  children  who  peer  after  me  as  I  pass, 
but  do  not  follow,  intensify  the  loneliness.  The  impres- 
sion is  perfectly  indescribable.  A  completely  deserted  place 
is  often  sad  enough,  but  there  will  usually  be  something 
to  make  the  loss  of  the  human  element  forgotten.  A 
bird  may  sing,  or  the  wind  blow  suddenly  in  the  face  re- 
freshingly. Here,  however,  the  few  signs  of  life  to  be 
seen  bring  with  them  such  a  wonderfully  overpowering, 
and  oppressively  real  sense  of  human  desertion  and  im- 
potence that  one  seems  walking  in  some  burial-ground 
where  a  few  of  the  open  graves  have  in  them  persons  not 
quite  dead,  but  dying,  waiting  patiently,  with  half-closed 
eyes,  for  the  end.^ 

After  breakfast  at  the  Posada,  I  make  inquiries  about 
Leyre,  and  find  that  we  can  get  there  well  enough  on 
mules,  and  as  soon  as  we  like.  A  man  of  fifty,  claiming  to 
be  French,  presents  himself,  and  offers  his  services  as  guide. 

"  I  know  the  country  perfectly  "  he  says,  "  surely  I 
ought.  I  have  lived  here  now  twenty-five  years,  and  am 
married  here."  He  insists  on  talking  French,  with  a  re- 
markable accent,  until  I  accept  his  services,  and  we  start, 
keeping  the  road  for  some  distance,  and  then  turning  to 
the  right,  and  ascending  through  an  oak  forest,  more  or 


226  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

less  dense,  and  by  the  side  of  a  dry  bed  of  a  mountain 
torrent.  The  monastery  stands  out,  a  square  shell,  above 
us. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  says  my  guide,  "I  live  by  here  ; 
I  want  to  go  and  get  my  gun.  There  are  lots  of  rabbits 
on  the  way  up."  To  this,  however,  I  object. 

"  I  know  the  country  perfectly,"  he  says  again,  "  I 
ought  to  by  this  time,  after  living  here  twenty-five  years, 
and  marrying  here."  He  is  short,  and  livid  of  complexion, 
with  large  speckled  ears  and  furtive,  doubtful  eyes.  When 
looked  at  he  deems  it  necessary  to  say  something,  which 
is  usually  about  his  peculiar  ability  in  some  direction. 

We  soon  reach  a  fountain  of  clear,  cold  water,  beside 
which  lies  a  long  slab,  where,  my  guide  volunteers,  the 
monks  took  chocolate.  Tradition  long  ago  jokingly  linked 
the  drinking  of  chocolate  with  the  lives  of  the  good  monks, 
perhaps  in  memory  of  the  days  of  its  then  recent  importa- 
tion from  America  when  the  work  *  of  Rauch  was  being 
secretly  sought  out  and  destroyed  by  the  holy  fathers,  for 
its  attack  upon  them  and  their  use  of  it. 

A  bee-house  with  hive  above  hive,  strongly  resembling 
a  modern  receiving-vault,  stands  just  beyond  the  wall. 
In  one  or  two  of  the  spaces  bees  are  still  flying  in  and 
out,  lineal  descendants,  no  doubt,  of  the  first  inhabit- 
ants, who  began  life  in  this  establishment  in  the  year  of 
1 790  (the  date  is  conspicuous  upon  the  face  of  the 
little  building),  and  who  are,  perhaps,  the  only  living 
things  left  who  could  give  us  the  traditions  of  this  place  as 
it  was. 

The  monastery  is  now  near,  and  we  go  up  to  it  as 
fast  as  my  mule  (I  discover  him  to  be  lame)  can  walk.  We 
find  the  place  seemingly  deserted,  its  heavy  walls  rising 

*  Disputatio  medico-diaetetica  de  acre  et  Esculentis  nec-non  de  potti  (Vienna  1624). 


Leyre — Pamplona  227 

without  sign  of  life  about  them.  But  recently-cut  stone 
lying  about  shows  the  progress  of  the  renovation  going 
on,  and  after  a  search  I  discover  a  foreman  who  takes  me 
over  the  ruin.  The  church  is  extremely  interesting,  al- 
though at  this  moment  in  a  state  of  confusion.  Many 
fine  capitals,  now  scattered  about  at  random,  will  find 
their  proper  resting  place  eventually  when  all  is  com- 
pleted. The  doorway  is  excellent. 

Inside,  workmen  are  cutting  stone  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairway  leading  into  the  crypt.  Here  I  find  what  most 
interests  me,  for  here  is  what  was  the  old  church,  which 
may  date  back  as  far  as  the  eighth  century. 

This,  like  San  Juan  de  la  Pena,  is  one  of  the  oldest 
monuments  of  the  Christians,  and,  like  it,  is  to  be  made 
the  resting-place  of  the  bones  of  the  rulers  of  its  ancient 
kingdom,  for  we  are  in  Navarre  now,  having  crossed  the 
boundary  line  between  this  place  and  Tiermas. 

The  Crypt  presents  a  curious  sight.  The  low  lines  of 
arches  have  not  yet  had  all  of  the  earthen  floor,  the  accu- 
mulation of  ages,  removed  from  around  the  bases  of  their 
columns  which  will  make  the  latter  much  longer  and  add 
lightness  to  their  appearance.  In  one  corner  of  this  half- 
dark  vault,  I  notice  a  gray  pile,  and,  going  towards  it,  in 
astonishment  find  it  a  mighty  heap  of  bones  :  skulls,  ver- 
tebrae, ribs,  femurs — a  general  debris  of  bodies  heaped  in 
utter  confusion. 

"  What  are  they  ?"  I  asked  the  foreman. 

"  Bones  of  the  monks,"  he  answers,  with  an  indifferent 
shrug,  turning  to  give  an  order  to  one  of  the  men. 

"  But  where  did  they  come  from— whose  are  they  ?" 

"  Dios  sabe  !  We  picked  them  up.  here  and  there  as 
we  came  to  them  in  the  excavations,  arid  as  there  were  no 
marks  or  inscriptions  they  were  all  piled  up  here  out  of  the 


228  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

way  until  we  can  finish  the  work.  See — here  are  shoes," 
he  continues,  picking  up  the  sole  of  what  may  once  have 
been  a  sandal,  and  snapping  it  with  his  finger. 

I  thought  of  the  temptation  of  Gough  who  preached 
against  light-fingered  antiquaries  and  who  yet  at  the  disin- 
terment  of  the  bones  of  Edward  the  First,  was  seen,  it  was 
told,  by  the  hoax-maker  Stevens,  to  pocket  a  finger  bone. 

The  haunting  legend  of  this  vicinity  is  the  famous 
sleep  of  St.  Biril,  the  local  Rip  Van  Winkle. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  says  the  foreman,  "  it  is  not  far,  I  '11  send 
my  boy  with  you." 

So,  mounted  once  more  on  my  lame  mule,  we  start  out 
to  see  the  spot  where  St.  Biril  took  his  three-hundred-year 
sleep.  The  place  is  all  that  imagination  could  demand, 
and  until  the  day  comes  when  tourists  arrive  to  bear  off 
mementoes,  will  remain  one  of  the  most  weirdly  interest- 
ing spots  in  all  Spain.  The  gigantic  cliffs  have  toppled 
down,  here  and  there,  in  tremendous  fragments,  and  be- 
tween them  has  arisen  a  wonderful  mass  of  dense  under- 
growth in  fantastic  irregularity ;  a  tract  of  upturned 
boulders  and  impassable  brush,  threaded  by  the  path 
which  winds  to  the  tomb  of  the  old  monk. 

After  a  slow  tramp  of  twenty  minutes,  we  reach  the 
spring  by  which  the  Saint  slept,  where,  by  its  side,  is 
shown  the  very  tree  on  which  his  head  rested  for  three 
centuries. 

The  good  St.  Biril,  in  the  middle  of  the  eighth  cen- 
tury, was,  we  are  told,  Abbot  of  Leyre  and  was  a  very  old 
man,  and,  if  we  may  judge,  somewhat  given  to  speculation 
after  the  manner  of  later  school-men  upon  details  of  the 
celestial  life  to  come.  One  day,  when  he  had  somewhat  ex- 
hausted mind  and  body  in  the  fatiguing  inward  contempla- 
tion of  the  cloister,  he  determined  to  walk  abroad  and 


Leyre — Pamplona  229 

recover  in  the  open  air  from  the  despondency  which  was 
creeping  upon  him.  The  dense  and  secluded  undergrowth 
near  the  monastery  was  just  suited  to  his  mood,  and  there 
he  went,  and  was  soon  moving  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
maze  of  trees  and  upturned  rocks  and  brush.  The  Saint 
went  slowly  and  laboriously  onward,  his  attention  little 
fixed  upon  his  surroundings,  until  he  came  to  a  small 
fountain,  where  he  sat  down  to  rest. 

Soon  the  soft  flowing  of  the  water  produced  a  drowsy 
effect  upon  the  old  man,  and  he  was  just  slipping  into  the 
realm  of  sleep  when  the  notes  of  a  bird  in  wonderful  and 
delicious  harmony  came  to  him  and  the  next  instant  the 
creature  perched  upon  a  branch  above  him.  As  the  Saint 
listened  to  the  marvellous  song,  the  thought  came  to  him  : 
"  Beautiful  and  soft  is  the  song  of  this  little  bird,  and  I 
could  listen  to  it  without  fatigue  an  hour  perhaps,  but, 
would  it  be  possible  to  listen,  without  fatigue,  forever— 
always — for  all  eternity — to  the  very  choirs  of  the  angels  ? 

"  Eternity  ! "  exclaimed  the  old  man  "  what  flower  hast 
thou  in  thy  dominions  whose  perfume  forever  pleases  the 
sense  of  smell ;  what  beauty  that  forever  refreshes  the 
sight ;  what  song  that  forever  charms  the  ear  ? " 

The  bird  continued  singing,  and  little  by  little  the  Saint 
fell  under  the  wonderful  charm  of  the  mysterious  melody 
and,  noticing  no  change  as  time  slipped  away,  he  did  not 
know  that  the  minutes  grew  to  hours,  the  hours  to  days, 
the  days  to  weeks,  and  months,  and  years,  until  at  last 
three  whole  centuries  had  slipped  away  before  the  bird 
took  wing,  and  the  holy  man  awoke  to  shake  himself  free 
from  the  heap  of  debris  that  had  accumulated  about  him. 
He  arose  to  find  himself  closely  shut  in  by  the  surrounding 
undergrowth,  and  it  was  with  the  utmost  labor  that  he  was 
able  to  force  his  way  out. 


230  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

But  once  out,  his  difficulties  were  only  just  begun. 
Surprises  began  to  meet  him  at  every  step.  The  road,  so 
familiar  of  old,  had  changed.  The  face  of  the  country 
was  different,  and  by  the  time  he  arrived  in  sight  of  the 
monastery,  he  began  to  think  he  had  taken  leave  of  his 
senses. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  seek  the  familiar  door,  but  that 
too  was  missing.  He  could  find  no  trace  of  it.  He  con- 
tinued to  examine  the  building,  and  noted  that  many  win- 
dows had  been  closed,  and  others  opened,  which  had  not 
existed  before.  The  monastery,  too,  was  larger,  and  great 
trees  stood  where  he  remembered  only  small  ones. 

Finally  he  stopped  before  an  iron  gate  and  knocked. 
A  monk,  whose  face  he  had  never  before  seen,  admitted 
him  to  a  large  room.  Here  he  was  soon  surrounded  by 
the  entire  community  of  the  monastery  filled  with  curiosity 
at  the  strange  figure  of  the  old  man.  The  chief  then  spoke 
to  him  and  inquired  who  he  was. 

After  several  questions  the  old  man  said  simply  :  "  I  am 
Biril,  the  abbot,  who  a  short  time  ago  went  out  walking 
in  the  forest." 

Little  by  little  at  the  old  man's  tale,  the  monks,  at  first 
incredulous,  began  to  believe  that  something  remarkable 
had  happened.  He  was  questioned  closely  ;  old  manu- 
scripts and  records  were  overhauled,  and  it  was  learned 
that  a  certain  Biril  had  actually  been  Abbot  of  Leyre  three 
hundred  years  previously,  and  that  he  had  mysteriously 
disappeared  and,  it  had  been  thought,  had  fallen  a  prey  to 
wild  beasts. 

When  the  good  Saint  realized  what  had  befallen  him 
he  exclaimed,  "  Merciful  God,  if  the  tongue  of  a  simple 
little  bird  moved  by  Thy  holy  love  may  give  a  man  such 
ineffable  delight  during  three  centuries,  what  delights  hast 


Leyre — Pamplona 


231 


thou  not  in  reserve  for  the  chosen  ones  in  the  choirs  of  the 
angels  which  shall  endure  for  all  time  ! " 

Thereupon  accompanied  by  the  whole  community,  he 
descended  to  the  sombre  crypt  to  pray,  and,  two  days  later, 
having  received  the  last  sacrament,  the  good  St.  Biril  died. 

We  return  to  the  monastery  now  and  begin  the  de- 
scent. It  is  almost  dark  before  we  have  gone  far,  and 
quite  so  before  reaching  the  road.  The  guide  repeatedly 
reassures  me,  as  he  stumbles  along,  with  his  unending  re- 
frain, that  we  shall  have  no  trouble  as  he  knows  the  coun- 
try perfectly — having  lived  there  twenty-five  years,  and 
having  married  there.  When  at  last  we  arrive  at  the 
posada  it  is  raining.  After 
a  hasty  supper,  I  go  to  bed, 
and  spend  the  night  in  bat- 
tle with  vermin. 

At  half  past  six  of  a 
rainy  morning,  we  are  once 
more  on  our  way  and  pass 
along  down  the  river,  mud- 
died by  the  rain.  We  again 
cross  the  dividing  line  into 
Navarre,  and,  half  an  hour 
later,  come  to  Yesa,  which 
lies  on  somewhat  rising 
ground.  We  stop  before 
the  old  church  in  the  driz- 
zle, which  has  chilled  us  and 
makes  the  interior  even 
more  dismal  and  uninviting 

than  I  had  pictured  it ;  and  the  quest — the  remains  of 
kings — is  not  enlivening.  They  have  been  placed  here 
while  the  repairs  go  on  at  Leyre. 


PEASANTS   OF   NAVARRE 


232  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

The  remains  are  in  a  long,  ancient,  gilded,  and  em- 
blazoned box,  which  stands  temporarily  to  the  left 
of  the  altar.  The  names  are  written  on  the  top,  but,  as 
the  box  appears  to  have  been  opened,  they  may  or  may 
not  be  the  real  names  of  its  present  occupants. 

The  little  building  is  somewhat  interesting  as  an  excel- 
lent example  of  a  small,  ill-kept,  smelly,  provincial  church, 
with  tawdry  altar  and  more  than  usually  bedecked  Virgin, 
before  which,  during  my  entire  stay,  an  old  woman  kneels, 
resisting  the  genuine  temptation  to  look  around  at  us. 

As  we  are  preparing  to  drive  on,  the  cura  who  has 
heard  of  our  arrival,  appears,  and  I  stop  to  thank  him  for 
his  trouble.  His  gown  is  torn,  and  he  looks  poor  enough, 
but  there  is  a  certain  dignity  of  manner  about  him,  not  to 
be  mistaken. 

He  is  tall  and  emaciated.  Yet  you  feel  that  you  are 
in  the  presence  of  one  of  those  men  of  magnificently  small 
lives,  to  which  Roman  Catholicism  points  now  as  she  has 
always  done.  He  stands  erect,  and  has  a  clear,  grave 
look  in  his  eyes,  fearless  as  it  is  simple.  His  torn  gown 
flaps  about  his  ankles  and  shows  the  worn,  heavy  shoes 
beneath,  Yet  we  know  that  he  is  patient  and  calm  for 
he  has  all  the  light  of  the  self-battle  in  his  eyes.  The 
light  of  the  daring  to  do  less  than  his  heart  tells  him  he 
is  able. 

At  8.25,  looking  back  from  a  crest  in  the  road,  Oroel 
is  still  visible,  although  only  the  lower  part,  for  the  top  is 
buried  in  a  great  rolled-up  heap  of  cloud.  At  Yesa  we 
have  left  the  bank  of  the  Aragon,  which  there  turns  away 
south,  while  our  course  continues,  bringing  us  under 
Liedena  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  after  which  we  curve  to 
the  left  and  come  down  to  the  river  Irati. 

Here  we  find  one  of  those  peculiar,  local,  ferry-boats, 


Leyre — Pamplona 


233 


managed  by  ropes,  and  which,  as  is  always  the  case  with  a 
Spanish  ferry,  is  on  the  other  side.  With  creak  and 
groan  and  much  talk  of  the  crops  and  a  discussion  of  the 

relative  merits  of  all 
governments,  we  are 
at  last  across  the  few 
intervening  feet  of 
water,  and,  after 
bumping  ashore, 
and  a  final  hand- 
shaking, which  as 
we  look  back  at  the 


FERRY 


boat  we   have   left, 

we  feel  to  be  a  partial  congratulation  at  having  cheated  the 
watery  element  of  its  prey,  we  once  more  start  on,  leav- 
ing Lumbier  on  the  right,  but  not  going  near  the  town. 

At  half  past  nine  the  rain  has  stopped,  and  twenty 
minutes  later,  with  rush  and  clatter,  the  Sanguesa  stage 
passes  us  and  disappears  with  a  sullen  rumble  behind,  only 
giving  time  for  a  rapid  glimpse  of  peering,  curious  faces, 
and  the  momentary 
sound  of  a  buzz  of 
voices  and  clatter  of 
wheels  and  harness. 

Aldomate,  a  little 
town,  lies  below  on 
the  right  of  the  road 
which  here  ascends, 
with  Lumbier  in  sight 
from  the  broad,  uneven-surfaced  valley. 

"El  A r agones  fino  despnes  de  comer  tiene  frio,"  says 
Leopoldo,  pulling  his  blanket  over  him. 

Passing   Izca  and  several  other  small  towns  we   reach 


SANQUESA 


234 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


Idocin  soon  after  eleven,  where  I  take  advantage  of  the 
"  hour's  rest "  demanded  by  Leopoldo  for  the  animals,  to 
eat  a  hurried  breakfast  and  explore  the  single,  narrow 
street  of  the  little  place. 

The  Posada  is  clean, 
and  two  sweet-faced  wom- 
en, one  of  whom  I  am 
somewhat  surprised  to 
find  bent  over  an  Amer- 
ican sewing-machine,  are 
the  only  occupants  at  the 
moment. 

By  Salinas  de  Mon- 
real  we  go,  where  salt  is 
mined  (and  the  process 
looks  dirty  enough)  and 
on  to  Monreal  itself,  un- 
der the  mountain  called 
"  The  Fig."  There  is  a 
building  above  Salinas, 
which  looks  to  me  much 
like  a  monastery,  but  I 

can  get  no  information  about  it.  By  Coello's  map  it 
might  be  Santa  Barbara.  Leaving  Monreal,  with  its  octa- 
gonal towered  church,  we  pass  the  Portazgo  Provincial,  or 
toll-gate,  and  out  upon  a  straight  bit  of  roacl,  the  arched, 
Roman-looking  aqueduct  taking  its  stream  into  Pamplona 
on  the  left,  with  the  railway  passing  beneath  the  middle 
arch. 

At  last,  at  half  past  two,  we  enter  the  broad,  uneven 
plain  of  the  capital  of  Navarre  and  Leopoldo  puts  a  new 
lash  on  his  whip.  Soon  the  two  towers  of  the  cathedral 
appear,  and  it  is  not  long  before  we  cross  the  dry  moat  in 


SPANISH  SOLDIERS 


Leyre — Pamplona 


235 


which  rope-makers  are  busily  at  work  with  their  great 
wheels,  and  enter  the  city  of  Pamplona.  A  military 
procession  is  slowly  winding  along  the  streets,  and  for  a 
while  we  are  blocked  watching  the  soldiers  file  by.  Finally, 
however,  we  are  before  the  door  of  the  Fotida  de  la  Perla, 
and  at  last  at  the  end  of  our  drive.  Ten  minutes  later  Leo- 
poldo  takes  his  leave,  wishing  me  every  manner  of  good 
fortune. 

His  departure  has  in  it  the  sadness  of  a  parting  of  old 
friends.  We  shake  hands  very  earnestly  twice,  and  I 
watch  him  from  the  window  as  he  mounts  to  his  seat,  in 
the  corner  of  the  square  below,  and  slowly  turns  the  light 
carriage  and  drives  off  down  a  side  street.  And  so  Leo- 
poldo  and  the  white  mule  disappear  forever. 


PLAZA  DE  LA  CONSTITUCION  PAMPLONA 


XV 

ESTELLA 

THERE   is  but  one  serious  disappointment  for  me  in 
Pamplona.     This  is  the  impossibility  of  gaining  ac- 
cess to  the  famous  Arabic  carved  ivory  box  at  the  cathe- 
dral, which  is  in  reality   my  chief  object  in   stopping  in 
the  city  at  all  at  this  moment. 

My  first  attempt  to  see  this  is  astonishing.  At  the 
cathedral  I  find  one  of  the  priests,  and  ask  him  to  help 
me. 

"Box?"  he  says  in  answer  to  my  inquiry,  "What 
box  ?  " 

"  What  box  ?  "     I  explain. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  another  Frenchman." 

"  No,  I  am  not  another  Frenchman." 

"  The  English  are  as ,"  he  stops. 

"Well?" 

"  Suppose  there  were  such  a  box  ?  " 

"  Suppose ! " 

"  Well,  how  did  you  know  of  it  ?" 

"  It  is  well  enough  known." 

"  That  is  no  answer.     You  are  from  a  commission  ?" 

"  No." 

"  You  want  to  photograph  the  box  ? " 

"  Not  at  all,  I  wish  merely  to  see  it." 

236 


Estella 


237 


"  I  don't  see  what  good  it  would  be  to  see  it.  You 
want  to  photograph  the  box." 

"  I  have  no  camera." 

"  You  want  to  photograph  the  box." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  the  box  has  already  been  photo- 
graphed, and  I  have  a  copy." 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  and  then  laid  his 
finger  on  the  side  of  his  nose. 


CAPITALS  OF  THE  EARLY  CATHEDRAL  OF  PAMPLONA— NOW  DESTROYED 

"  You  want  to  photograph  the  box,"  he  said,  "  it  can- 
not be  seen,"  whereupon  he  turned  his  back  upon  me  and 
marched  away,  his  black  robe  floating  behind  him  in  stiff 
uncompromising  folds. 

As  my  other  attempt  turns  out  as  badly  I  give  it  up. 
To  this  day,  after  a  dozen  visits  to  Pamplona,  I  have 
never  seen  the  famous  box. 

A  peculiar  spirit  seems  to  pervade  this  cathedral. 
My  inquiries  of  a  choir-boy  as  to  access  to  a  tower,  are 
answered,  after  a  furtive  glance  up  and  down  the  long 
aisles,  to  the  effect  that  he  will  guide  me. 

"  Are  you  from  Pamplona  ? "  I  ask,  as  we  climb  the 
stairway. 


238  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

"  Yes,  my  father  is  Tomas  Izgarre.  Do  you  know 
him  ? " 

"  No." 

"  He  makes  shoes." 

11  Ah." 

"  On  the  street  of  the  Martyrs  of  Estella.  He  is  an 
old  man  now — more  than  fifty."  And  so  this  frank  boy 
needs  very  little  urging  to  tell  me  that  he  has  three 
sisters,  two  married  and  one  living  at  Sos. 

"  Ferdinand  the  Catholic  was  born  at  Sos,"  I  say,  pe- 
dantically. 

"  Was  he  ?"  He  is  a  delicate  little  fellow,  in  his  flow- 
ing gown  which  he  holds  up  at  the  side,  and  has  large, 
brown,  melancholy  eyes.  We  ascend  slowly,  and  I  notice 
a  certain  anxious  look  on  his  face.  We  reach  the  top, 
however,  without  accident.  The  view  of  the  city  is  excel- 
lent, and  my  small  guide  points  out  the  buildings  in 
answer  to  my  questions. 

Suddenly  he  is  gone,  and  at  the  same  moment  comes 
the  sound  of  a  heavy  step  and  deeply-drawn  breaths. 
Turning,  I  am  just  in  time  to  see  a  fat  man  dash  wildly 
across  the  open  space  in  a  vain  attempt  to  catch  my  boy, 
who  dodges  him  with  every  appearance  of  terror. 

"Oh,  if  I  catch  you  I  '11  teach  you — I  '11  teach 
you  ! "  (here  a  desperate  lunge)  and  he  almost  lays 
hands  on  his  adversary  who,  however,  ducks  instantly. 
A  moment  later  his  flying  footsteps  patter  away  down 
below  us. 

"What  is  the  matter?"   I  inquire,  innocently. 

"The  matter?"  puffs  the  newly  arrived  —  "the 
matter  ?  The  Devil  catch  him !  (puff,  puff)  the  little 
thief  !  (puff) — I  knew  he  would  (puff)  try  to  do  it.  I 
knew  it ! " 


Estella  239 

"Do  what?" 

"  And  it 's  the  third  time  I  have  caught  him — the  third 
time.  My  wife  's  a  poor  woman,  senor,  and  she  can't 
afford  it — no,  senor, — the  little  devil !  "  (puff) 

"  What  has  he  done  ?  " 

"  Did  he  not  offer  to  come  up  here  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Ah,  I  knew  it !  " 

"But  why  not?" 

"  My  wife  is  a  poor  woman,  senor — a  poor  woman- 
she  cannot  afford  to  lose  what  the  senores  may  give — and 
this  little,  lying  son  of  Satan  is  always  sneaking  about 
and  getting  the  pesetas  from  the  senores  who  come — she 
being  a  little  deaf — and  that  she  sleeps  so  much — Ah, 
Bfos/" 

It  is  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  a  pleasant  day 
when  we  drive  out  of  town,  with  a  fine  horn-flourish  from 
the  mayoral,  and,  after  galloping  a  mile,  settle  down  into 
a  trot,  somewhat  faster,  I  must  confess,  than  is  usual  with 
these  coaches.  We  are  bound  for  Estella.  A  cross  by 
the  roadside  soon  after  starting,  marks  the  place  of  death 
of  Ramon  Alaregui  (I  think  that  is  the  name).  Before 
reaching  Zizurwe  pass  two  churches,  one  in  ruins.  These 
are  the  first  interesting  objects. 

At  half-past  four  we  enter  Puenta  La  Reina,  with  its 
little  fort, — "  named,"  says  the  historian,  "  from  the  con- 
struction of  its  great  and  beautiful  bridge  over  the  Arga 
by  some  unknown  queen."  One  of  the  passengers,  a  tall, 
thin  man,  and  myself,  walk  across  the  bridge  and  wait  for 
the  stage  on  the  other  side.  It  gives  a  good  view  of  the 
town  and  the  Arga. 

Our  driver  has  been  out   the  night  before  with    his 


240  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

friends,  there  is  not  a  doubt,  for  he  is  scarcely  able  to 
keep  his  eyes  open.  He  sways  from  side  to  side  with 
half-closed  lids,  his  cigar  drooping,  unlit,  from  the  corner 
of  his  big,  thick-lipped  mouth.  But  we  get  speed  at  least, 
though  at  some  risk,  for  he  lashes  his  horses  unmercifully. 
At  last,  just  at  nightfall,  the  final  horn  is  blown,  with  a 
shaking  hand,  and  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  we  come 
to  the  town  and  the  entrance  of  a  narrow  street.  It  is 
dark  now,  and  a  long  line  of  lights  dimly  marks  our  way. 
As  we  sway  along  between  the  narrow  rows  of  houses, 
from  whose  second  stories  heads  peer  and  waving  lights 
are  thrust,  the  snap-snap  of  the  whip  becomes  incessant, 
a  warning  to  the  crowds  of  children. 

Suddenly  a  ruddy  glare  bursts  out.  We  are  passing  a 
blacksmith's  shop.  The  owner  appears  at  the  door  and 
thrusts  into  the  street  on  high  uplifted  tongs  a  great  mass 
of  red-hot  iron  which  flares  and  hisses  and  lights  up  all 
about  with  a  lurid  glare  as  he  waves  it  above  him,  the 
muscles  of  his  great,  right  arm  marked  out  in  red-touched 
knobs  and  black  hollows,  and  his  up-turned,  sweat-covered 
face  ablaze.  He  laughs  good-naturedly  as  the  horses  shy 
and  the  mayoral  curses  ;  then  the  thump,  thump  of  his 
hammer  sounds  again  as  we  pass  on  up  the  street.  A  few 
moments  later  we  are  in  the  Posada  San  Julian. 

In  the  early  morning,  as  I  come  down-stairs,  I  am  con- 
fronted at  the  door  by  seven  or  eight  tattered  old  women, 
who,  at  sight  of  me,  exclaim,  simultaneously  : 

"  Ave  Maria  Purissima  !  " 

Not  knowing  the  cause  of  this  sudden  welcome  from 
so  many  strange  ladies,  I  no  doubt  look  confused,  but  the 
outstretched  hands  are  not  to  be  mistaken,  and  I  find  that 
a  copper  in  each  settles  the  question  most  satisfactorily. 


Estella  241 

Each  bears  about  her  neck  a  brass  star  with  what  seem 
cabalistic  letters  upon  it.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  am  not  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  witches.  However,  a  side  door  of 
the  hotel  opens,  and  a  boy  comes  out,  and  as  I  had  done, 
distributes  coppers  with  blessings,  whereupon  they  betake 
themselves  off. 

"  Who  are  they?"  I  ask  the  boy. 

"  Only  poor  people.  They  come  every  Saturday  to 
beg." 

"  And  that  brass  plate  ?"  I  pointed  after  one. 

"  Oh,  that  is  given  them  by  the  Ayuntamiento.  It  is 
a  permission,  and  to  assure  the  people  they  are  really 
poor." 

"  So  you  have  no  means  of  telling  the  beggars  from 
the  others  here  except  by  a  brass  plate  ?  "  I  ask. 

"  None,"  says  the  boy,  innocent  of  satire. 

I  watch  the  group  that  has  been  by  the  door.  They 
are  out  under  the  arcade  now,  arguing  over  a  division  of 
the  spoils.  A  fantastic  group  they  are,  old  and  wrinkled, 
and  bent,  but  loud-voiced  and  clamorous.  There  is  only 
one  old  man — by  far  the  feeblest  of  them  all.  It  is  amus- 
ing to  see  how  they  push  him  aside  and  ignore  him,  and 
finally,  when  the  division  is  made,  dole  out  his  share  half 
contemptuously. 

By  and  by  it  seems  settled  to  their  satisfaction,  and 
they  break  up  into  little  groups.  I  can  overhear  a  few 
words  : 

"  Mass  is  striking,"  says  one. 

"And  Roberto — is  he  better?" 

"  Ah,  no — last  night  he  died."  A  series  of  exclama- 
tions follow,  and  I  catch  no  more. 

I  depart,  wondering  who  Roberto  may  be — some  time- 
honored  veteran  of  the  staff,  no  doubt. 


16 


242 


A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 


A  short  walk  brings  me  to  the  little  town  of  Ayegui, 
beyond  which  is  the  convent  of  Ihrache,  where  I  find,  to 
show  me  about,  a  talkative  old  door-keeper,  who  gives 
dates  of  historical  happenings  in  a  confused  and  mumbling 
way.  On  the  return,  a  man  going  the  same  way,  gives  me 
the  names  of  the  peaks  in  sight,  and  tells  me  the  story  of 
the  young  count  who  fell  over  the  cliff  near  the  town,  and 
also  the  pathetic  tale  of  his  nurse. 

"  You  came  last  night,  I  hear,"  he  says. 
"  You  heard  it  ?  "   I  ask,   "  how  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  said  at  the  Casino  that  an  Ingles  had  come 
from  Pamplona  on  the  coach — and  I  did  not  think  there 
could  be  two." 

Hurrying  along  back  to  the  hotel  through  the  narrow 
streets,  I  turn  a  corner  suddenly,  and  find  myself  face  to 
face  with  two  women,  one  perhaps  fifty,  and  the  other  a 
girl  of  less  than  sixteen.  For  a  moment,  I  confess,  I  stop 
short.  The  younger,  is  one  of  those  wonderful  Madonna 

child-women,  rarer  in 
Spain  than  in  Italy. 
I  turn  home  slowly 
and  begin  getting 
ready  for  the  coach. 

Perhaps  an  hour 
has  gone  by,  when 
the  girl  from  below 
comes  to  say  that  two 
senoras  would  like  to 
speak  to  me.  I  start 
to  descend,  but  they 
meet  me  at  the  door. 

I  think  my  face  is  expressive  when  the  same  mother  and 
daughter  enter. 


ESTELLA 


Estella  243 

They  seat  themselves  at  my  invitation  and  the  elder 
proceeds  to  explain,  at  first  with  some  hesitation,  the  cause 
of  their  visit.  They  had  heard,  they  said,  that  a  "  North 
American  from  the  United  States"  had  arrived  in  town, 
and  passing  me,  had  at  once  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  must  be  myself.  Now,  had  I  ever  been  in  New  Orleans  ? 
The  question  is  sent  at  me  without  delay,  and  when  I 
confess  that  I  have,  both  smile  and  nod  to  each  other. 

"  And  is  it  possible  that,  having  been  in  that  city,  I 
had  ever  been  acquainted  with  Senor  Juan  Gomez  y 
Leon  ?  " 

I  regret  that  I  have  not  had  that  pleasure. 

Then  comes  the  story.  The  said  Senor  Juan  Gomez 
y  Leon,  appears  to  have  been  the  uncle  of  the  lady  now 
before  me,  who,  with  the  daughter  is  the  rightful  heir- 
ess of  the  said  Don  Juan. 

This  gentleman,  being  of  a  roving  and  affectionate 
disposition  in  days  gone,  had  after  many  like  adventures 
fallen  at  last  under  the  seductive  influence  of  some  fair 
lady  of  New  Orleans,  soon  after  which  he  had  suddenly 
languished  and  passed  away  (without  due  reason,  as  my 
excited  visitors  seem  to  think),  leaving  this  final  recipient 
of  his  affection  also  the  recipient  of  his  worldly  wealth. 

Suddenly  then  there  appeared  before  the  eyes  of  his 
startled  heirs,  who  deemed  it  merely  necessary  to  write 
and  demand  that  wealth,  a  will,  leaving  "  to  my  beloved 
wife  Jitana  Romero "  his  entire  fortune,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  certain  old  pieces  of  furniture,  which,  by  the  con- 
temptuous tone  in  which  the  ladies  mention  them,  can 
scarcely  be  of  buhl  or  ormolu. 

"  And  what  we  want  to  prove,"  says  the  younger,  on 
whose  exquisitely  refined  face  the  signs  of  impatience  have 
been  growing  during  the  last  few  minutes,  and  can  no 


244  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

longer  be  controlled,  "What  we  want  to  prove  is,  that 
this  woman  was  only  our  uncle's  mistress,  and  can  have 
no  legal  share  in  the  property." 

"  Ah,"  I  say,  contemplating  the  young  lady  who  has 
just  given  vent  to  this  modest  sentiment.  "  I  see.  You 
wish  to  prove  that  your  uncle  was  not  living  with  this 
person— 

"  Just  so,"  interrupts  the  damsel.  "  That  she  was  his 
mistress,  besides,  we  have  proof  that  she  was  a  common 
character." 

"  And  what  was  the  amount  of  this  income,  if  I  may 
presume  to  ask  ?  "  I  say,  turning  again  to  the  mother. 

The  latter  bends  forward  and  lowers  her  voice,  and 
the  daughter's  eyes  assume  an  eager  expression. 

"  When  I  saw  my  uncle  last,"  she  says,  "  he  told  me 
himself  that  his  fortune  brought  him  an  income  of  over 
one  hundred  and  twenty-five  pesetas  a  year"  ($25.00). 

"  Impossible  !"  I  say,  recovering  my  upright  position. 
"  But  the  will  ?  Did  you  see  it  ?  " 

"  No,  only  a  copy — and  it  was  in  English,  which  we 
could  not  read,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  we  could 
get  it  translated." 

It  has  always  been  a  cause  of  deep  regret  to  me  that 
the  conversation,  begun  under  these  circumstances,  has 
never  been  completed.  My  stage  leaving  so  soon  after 
this  I  was  forced  to  bring  the  interesting  interview  to  a 
close.  Under  stress  of  urging,  however,  I  was  drawn  to 
promise  that  if  I  should  ever  be  in  New  Orleans,  and 
should  ever,  while  there,  chance  to  meet  with  the  mistress 
of  the  said  Sefior  Don  Juan  Gomez  y  Leon,  I  would 
surely  inform  them  by  letter. 

Thereupon  they  took  their  leave,  thanking  me  most 
heartily,  and  I  assured  the  daughter  that  her  eloquence 


Estella  245 

alone  had  convinced  me  that  her  uncle  was  a  most  de- 
praved character,  which  she  received  as  a  well-earned 
compliment. 

When  they  had  fairly  gone,  I  made  a  rapid  rush  for 
my  things,  put  two  hard-boiled  eggs  and  a  piece  of  cheese, 
wrapped  in  brown  paper,  in  my  pocket,  and  flying  down- 
stairs, paid  the  bill  and  just  barely  caught  the  coach. 

After  leaving  Estella,  the  road  turns  to  the  left  branch- 
ing from  the  one  I  took  in  the  early  morning  to  Ihrache. 

Here  we  are  joined  by  two  priests,  one  a  tall  well- 
built,  square-jawed  man  ;  the  other  small  and  thin-faced, 
coughing  continually,  and  whose  great,  priest  hat  in- 
creases a  most  peculiar  expression  of  unceasing  surprise. 
To  add  to  this,  his  small,  wide-open  eyes  are  surmounted 
by  up-raised,  astonished  eyebrows,  and  a  half  open  mouth, 
and  two  deep  wonder  wrinkles  in  the  middle  of  his  fore- 
head confirm  the  unavoidable  impression  that  he  is  in 
some  occult  way  beholding  always,  just  beyond  his  nose, 
some  strange  and  fantastic  thing.  When  he  is  not  look- 
ing straight  before  him  with  hands  folded  in  his  lap,  or 
coughing,  he  is  wonderingly  engaged  in  taking  a  lozenge. 
And  this  is  the  Vicario  General  of  the  order  of  the  Escu- 
lapians  of  Spain — a  force  indeed,  for  into  the  power  of 
his  order  fall  a  great  percentage  of  the  children  of  the 
country  !  He  told  me  that  the  order  had  (I  think)  some 
fifty  schools. 

At  Morento  (11.30)  I  found  time  to  talk  with  one  of 
the  stone-breakers — (camineros) — by  the  roadside.  The 
amount  of  road  allotted  to  these  men  varies  with  its 
physical  difficulties.  This  one  has  five  kilometres.  They 
are  paid  by  the  amount  of  stone  they  break,  and  average 
two  pesetas  a  day  (40  cents). 

There  is  much  talk  at  Sesma  of  a  wonderful  surgeon 


246  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

who  lives  here,  but  I  cannot  recall  his  name.  The  vines 
are  much  injured  by  cold,  and  there  is  a  great  lack  of 
water.  We  turn  to  the  left,  on  sighting  Alcanadre,  which 
lies  far  off  across  the  Ebro,  and  is  seen  through  the  break 
in  the  hills.  Approaching  Lodosa,  with  the  river  below 
us,  a  curious  sight  presents  itself.  On  first  seeing  the 
town  lying  under  a  hill,  I  am  struck  with  the  curious 
patches  of  red  on  walls  and  roofs  of  the  houses  and  in 
some  places  whole  parts  of  the  town. 

"  Why  do  they  paint  the  houses  red  here  ?  "  I  asked 
the  mayoral.  "  They  don't  do  it  anywhere  else  in  Na- 
varre." 

"  Paint  the  houses  red?"  he  replies  somewhat  gruffly, 
for  during  the  last  half  of  the  journey  he  has  been  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  the  dash-board,  the  stage  being  filled  to 
overflowing  (in  spite  of  government  rules  to  the  con- 
trary). 

"Paint  the  houses  red?"  he  says  again.  Then  it 
seems  to  dawn  on  him,  and,  giving  a  snap  to  his  whip,— 

"  Ca  !  "  he  exclaims,  "  those  are  peppers." 

And  peppers  they  are.  We  are  soon  near  enough  to 
see  the  great  red  masses  of  fire,  some  eight  inches  long, 
millions  of  them.  It  is  a  good-sized  town,  and  one  can 
guess  how  many  it  must  have  taken,  strung  in  great,  pen- 
dent lines  a  foot  thick  and  ten  feet  long  to  give  a  red 
color  to  nearly  the  whole  place  three  miles  away. 

WTe  drive  between  the  blazing,  scarlet  walls,  and  stop 
for  breakfast.  Here  I  see  more  of  the  Vicar  General. 
He  turns  out  to  be  a  bright  little  fellow,  for  all  his 
astonishment,  with  a  somewhat  surprising  knowledge  of 
the  outside  world. 

Breakfast  over,  there  is  singing,  and  playing  on  a 
guitar  by  a  man  who  rolls  his  eyes  as  he  thrums,  intend- 


Estella  247 

ing  no  doubt,  to  express  feeling.  The  coach  takes  us 
over  the  bridge  with  a  clatter  to  the  station  where  the 
train  comes  after  a  long  wait  on  the  platform.  I  keep 
my  new  friends,  the  priests,  taking  the  same  coach  with 
them  to  Zaragoza,  in  spite  of  the  calls  of  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  group,  who  say  something  unpleasantly  jocose 
about  "Los  Curas" 

The  amount  the  little  Vicar  General  knows  about 
America,  especially  the  Southern  States,  astonishes  me. 
He  tells  me  how  and  where  they  are  preparing  men  in 
Spain  who  are  to  go  to  America  and  urge  on  The  Work. 

He  in  turn  seems  surprised  that  I  know  several  of  his 
school  teachers,  one  in  Jaca,  and  another  in  San  Pedro  de 
Cardena  near  Burgos. 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  says,  "  to  meet  someone  at  last  from 
your  country  who  is  willing  to  go  into  the  little  towns  of 
Spain  and  see  the  people.  Most  foreigners  think  we 
are  a  nation  of  bullfighters." 

It  is  moonlight,  clear  and  cold,  when  we  reached  Zara- 
goza. The  streets  have  an  old-friend  look  about  them, 
but  it  is  too  late  to  feel  anything  but  cold. 


XVI 
RONCESVALLES 

THERE  was  a  curious  old  woman,  now  dead,  I  believe, 
who,  weighted  down  with  a  glass-topped  tray  filled  with 
Virgins  (of  the  Pilar),  was  always  at  Casetas,  with  her 
never-changing  call ;  "  Imagenes  del  Virgen  del  Pilar — muy 
bonita"  the  last  syllable  prolonged  and  accented  into  a 
sort  of  pathetic  wail,  which  still  rings  in  my  memory. 

When,  therefore,  I  passed  Casetas  this  morning,  and 
did  not  hear  or  see  her,  I  felt  quite  as  lonely  and  dis- 
heartened as  if  I  had  lost  an  old  friend.  I  was  going 
north  from  the  Sierra  de  Moncayo,  whence  it  was  that  an 
Arabic  expedition  once  marched  against  the  towns  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Aragon,  to  whose  aid  Sancho  the  Great 
came  down  the  river.  Caparrosa,  Milagro,  and  later,  the 
bold  outlines  of  the  castle  of  Olite  are  in  sight  from  the 
train  window. 

At  Pamplona  there  is  time  only  to  take  luncheon,  and 
change  from  train  to  coach — the  latter  leaving  for  Bur- 
guente  at  2  P.M.  Out  past  Villaba,  with  its  paper-mills,  we 
drive,  and  on  to  Urroz.  On  the  top  of  the  coach  with  me, 
in  his  yellow  and  black  uniform,  there  is  a  Guardia  Civil, 
who  is  willing  to  beguile  the  way  with  his  adventures. 

"  Do  you  mean  is  there  much  shooting  and  robbery?" 
he  says  in  answer  to  my  question  on  that  score. 

248 


Roncesvalles 


249 


l<  Yes." 

"Well,  not  so  much,  of  course,  as  in  the  South,  but  we 
have  our  share.  There,"  he  continued,  "  is  a  pistol,"  draw- 
ing out  a  revolver  beautifully  inland  with  gold,  "  which 
was  given  me  last  year  for  killing  a  couple  of  thieves." 

I  was  at  once  interested  and  he  continues. 


"  I  was  over  in  the  hills  by  Burguente  on  a  trip  of  in- 
spection, and  stopped  for  the  night  at  a  friend's.  It  was 
about  midnight  ancVwe  had  just  turned  in  when  I  heard 
some  one  at  the  door  below  knocking  and  calling.  I  went 
down  and  found  a  man,  out  of  breath  with  running,  who 
told  me  that  there  were  four  fellows  in  his  house,  and 
that  they  were  stripping  it.  He  knew  I  was  there  and 
had  come  over  for  help.  Well,  I  took  my  gun  and  got 
my  shoes  on  in  a  minute  and  started  with  him.  The 


250          A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

house  was  just  around  the  curve  in  the  road,  and  we  were 
there  in  three  minutes.  As  we  came  along  I  saw  a  light 
ahead,  and  then  somebody  ran  by  me.  I  called  to  him  to 
stop,  but  got  no  answer.  Then  two  came  running  by.  I 
did  n't  wait  this  time,  but  fired,  and  one  went  down.  The 

light,  which  had  been  stationary 
until  that  time,  then  began  to 
move  away,  and  I  followed  at  a 
run.  The  fellow,  as  soon  as  he 
suspected  that  I  was  coming, 
threw  the  lantern  down  with  a 
crash.  I  fired  just  as  he  did  it, 
and  when  I  got  there  he  was 

RONCESVALLES 

dead.  We  went  back  and  hunted 

up  the  first  man  who  was  making  a  great  noise,  lying  on 
his  back  and  groaning.  We  got  him  into  the  house  and 
tried  to  fix  him  up,  but  he  died  before  morning. 

"  And  the  other  two  got  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  never  got  the  others." 

"  A  few  friends  at  Burguente  gave  me  the  pistol,"  he 
continued,  unclasping  the  barrel  and  handing  it  to  me.  It 
was  self-acting,  of  the  old  style,  richly  inlaid  with  Toledo 
gold-work. 

At  Aois,  which  lies  under  a  round,  swelling  mountain 
with  a  rocky  knoll  at  the  end,  this  hunter  of  men  left  us. 
After  a  change  of  horses  we  went  on  with  a  new  mayoral 
to  Burguente,  where  the  rest  of  the  night  was  spent. 
Part  of  this  ride  was  shared  with  a  little  girl  of  four,  put 
in  by  her  mother,  on  the  trembling  edge  of  tears,  and  con- 
fided to  our  tender  mercies.  Poor  little  thing,  every  now 
and  then  when  a  match  was"  struck  to  light  a  cigarette,  I 
looked  down  and  saw  her  sitting  bolt  upright,  her  hands 
clasped  desperately  in  her  lap,  and  her  little,  round  eyes 
almost  popping  out  of  her  head. 


Roncesvalles  251 

Next  morning  at  five,  in  a  coach  loaded  with  five  wine 
skins,  I  started,  the  only  passenger,  for  Roncesvalles. 
After  a  rapid  drive  between  long  rows  of  trees  bordering 
the  road,  we  stopped  at  last  before  the  little  church. 

Inside  they  were  celebrating  mass,  and  the  high  altar 
was  lighted  up.  It  was  still  dark,  although  the  morning 
was  coming,  and  the  mysterious  light  of  the  church  was 
rendered  more  solemn  by  the  deep  melancholy  voices  of 
the  priests  and  the  double  rows  of  bent,  uncovered  heads, 
across  which  the  candles  sent  a  dim,  flickering  yellow  light. 
I  walked  on  through  the  little  town,  passing  under  an 
arched  way  like  a  tunnel,  and  then  up  out  of  the  streets, 
and,  by  a  foot-path,  along  the  side  of  the  gorge  till  it 
joined  the  road  again. 

It  seems  almost  a  pity  that  Roncesvalles  is  so  pervaded 
by  the  Charlemagne  legend.  Its  individuality  is  quite  as 
lost  as  that  of  Waterloo  and  other  over-historied  places, 
with  the  general  difference,  however,  that  there  was  here  an 
individuality  to  lose.  It  would  be  really  a  beautiful  little 
place  to  discover  and  enjoy  by  one's  self.  One  goes  along 
instinctively  distributing  and  arranging  the  position  of  the 
famous  Rear-Guard.  Suitable  places  are  found  for  Roland 
to  stand,  amid  a  ring  of  dead,  and  sound  that  last,  tre- 
mendous blast  which  pierced  across  the  maze  of  hills  and 
valleys  to  the  ears  of  the  great  Charles.  After  reading 
and  seeing  illustrations  to  the  poem  a  disappointment  may 
await  the  traveller  at  Roncesvalles.  The  scenery  is  infi- 
nitely less  grand  than  one  expects.  The  walls  of  the  moun- 
tains by  no  means  rise  sheer  out  of  the  valley  in  monster 
precipices  and  gorges.  The  little  rolling  vale,  though 
quite  fitted  for  a  surprise  and  defeat,  is  not  what  we  .pic- 
ture for  the  heroic  setting  of  the  great  poem  and  Roland, 
mounted  on  his  faithful  destrier,  his  Durandal  in  one  hand 
and  the  great  horn  in  the  other,  stands  out  less  vividly. 


252  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

There  is  in  the  church  here  a  little  bit  of  iron  which 
recalls  an  event  of  perhaps  far  more  importance  than  ever 
was  the  death  of  Roland.  A  slight  memorial  indeed  it  is  ; 
a  bit  of  iron  chain  ;  yet  I  think  this  little  church  can  be 
more  justly  proud  of  its  trophy  than  even  the  ancient 
Basilica  in  Rome,  possessed  of  a  like  relic,  and  the  ad- 
ditional prestige  of  a  horned  Moses. 

This  link  of  iron  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  fragments  of 
that  chain  which,  surrounding  a  portion  of  the  Moorish 
chiefs'  forces  in  the  battle  of  Navas  de  Tolosa,  was  burst 
asunder  by  Sancho  the  Strong  of  Navarre. 

After  some  time  the  coach  comes  by  and  picks  me  up 
and  I  am  glad  to  get  in  behind  one  of  the  slightly  warm 
wine  skins  which,  not  being  quite  full,  folds  a  clinging 
embrace  about  my  knees. 

Then  we  go  on  slowly  up  the  ascent  passing  the 
hermitage,  a  little  ruin  on  the  left — where  Charlemagne 
is  said  to  have  emerged  from  the  valley,  and  on  top 
of  the  divide  between  Val  Carlos  and  Roncesvalles  we 
have  a  magnificent  view.  In  front  lies  the  valley — 
Charlemagne's  route  back  into  France — and  behind,  the 
little  hollow  of  Roncesvalles  filled  with  trees,  the  whole 
end  blocked  by  the  heaped-up,  blazing  gold  of  a  glorious 
sunrise. 

Then  we  begin  the  descent  along  the  road  winding 
snake-like  below  us.  The  sight  of  France,  or  perhaps  it  is 
the  long  down-grade,  seems  to  infuse  new  life  into  our 
driver,  for  he  whips  up  his  horses  and  breaks  into  songs, 
set  to  Basque  words.  The  wine  skins,  against  which  my 
legs  are  pressed,  are  trembling  like  great  bowls  of  jelly. 
Suddenly  he  pulls  up. 

A  woman  stops  us  in  front  of  a  small  low  house.  "  Bring 
me  a  loaf  when  you  come  back,"  she  says  to  the  driver, 


Roncesvalles  253 

handing  him  some  money.  He  takes  it  and  nods. 
" Adios"  she  calls  after  us,  and  we  drive  on. 

At  Valcarlos,  with  its  white  houses  in  a  beautiful,  rich, 
green  valley,  all  looking  bright,  and  fresh,  and  clean,  and 
quite  unlike  anything  on  the  other  side,  we  part  with 
the  little  stage  and  its  driver,  and  wait  for  breakfast  and 
the  other  stage.  A  walk  down  through  the  town  brings 
me  back  with  a  healthy  anxiety  for  food,  and  I  watch  the 
baby  getting  dressed  by  the  fire  where  my  breakfast  is 
cooking.  There  are  a  great  many  little  white  pigs  run- 
ning about — all  of  the  same  family,  and  the  old  sow  lies  at 
some  distance  with  her  small  eyes  intently  fixed  on  their 
actions. 

At  last  the  other  stage  arrives,  and  we  get  under  way 
once  more,  picking  up,  very  soon  after  starting,  an  old 
lady  dressed  in  black  who  seems  to  be  the  mother  of  a 
priest  of  about  thirty  who  puts  her  into  the  stage  and  says 
good-bye.  From  now  on  we  stop  every  little  while  to  speak 
or  to  be  spoken  to  by  the  passers.  Our  driver  this  time 
is  even  more  jolly  and  French  than  before,  and  sings  mar- 
tial songs  and  whistles  operatic  airs.  He  is  a  great  favor- 
ite with  every  one,  it  seems,  and  has,  for  reward  of  his 
good  nature,  a  long  list  of  messages,  errands  and  pur- 
chases to  be  gone  through  with  before  his  return.  French, 
Spanish,  Basque — all  tongues  are  alike  to  him — as  indeed 
they  are  to  all  these  people.  Naturally  the  accent  is 
Southern,  but  it  is  not  bad,  and  at  one  point  where  we  are 
stopped  by  a  pretty  girl  of  eighteen  to  discuss  the  possi- 
bility of  matching  a  piece  of  cloth,  it  seems  quite  satis- 
factory. 

At  St.  Jean  Pied  de  Port  we  meet  with  a  difficulty  in 
the  fact  that  the  stage  is  over-crowded.  An  army  of  pil- 
grims, it  seems,  are  en  route  for  Lourdes,  and  we  are 


254  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

threatened  with  a  possibility  of  delay.  But  another  coach 
is  put  on  at  last  and  we  get  seats  on  the  roof,  whereupon 
up  comes  my  old  lady  in  black  and  seats  herself  beside  me. 

"  Yes,"  she  says  in  answer  to  my  question,  "  I  am 
going  to  Lourdes  too.  You  see  I  am  old — very  old,  and  I 
want  to  see  if  I  cannot  attain  to  Heaven — that  is  the  best 
thing,  you  know — the  best  thing,"  and  she  reverently 
clasps  a  string  of  heavy  beads  lying  in  her  lap.  At  this 
moment  there  mounts  with  us  another  woman,  quite  as  old 
as  the  first  and  quite  as  eager  for  the  pilgrimage,  and  soon 
these  two  fall  into  an  earnest  conversation  in  Basque,  for 
one  is  a  Spanish  and  the  other  French  Basque.  The 
words  and  the  conversation  are  beyond  me,  but  by  the  aid 
of  the  free  interpretation  of  gestures,  it  is  evident  that 
their  one  theme  deals  with  things  not  of  this  world. 

"  Whoever  has  been  in  the  land  of  the  Basques,"  says 
Victor  Hugo,  "wishes  to  return  to  it ;  it  is  a  blessed  land." 
These  people  are  attractive  to  an  American  in  their  spirit 
of  enterprise  and  energy.  Thiers  calls  them  the  "most 
gentle,  the  most  active,  the  bravest  and  the  most  industri- 
ous of  all  those  in  the  Peninsula."  It  is  quite  true,  if  in 
some  respects  we  except  the  Catalans,  who  have  been  to 
no  small  extent  under  the  influence  of  France  and  the 
commercial  intercourse  of  the  Mediterranean.  Castelar 
once  spoke  of  them  as  "  the  four  most  ancient  provinces, 
the  most  historic,  of  character  the  most  independent,  of 
the  oldest  traditional  liberty." 

At  last,  the  old  coach  creaking  and  groaning,  we  start 
on,  out  under  the  arch  in  the  wall,  and  through  the  narrow 
street.  Our  eyes  are  on  a  level  with  the  second  stories. 
There  are  old  coats-of-arms  carved  in  walls  or  over  doors, 
and  plates  giving  the  date  of  erection  of  the  buildings. 
Then  we  go  out  by  a  little  river,  up  which  the  railroad  is 


Roncesvalles  255 

being  built,  and  on  along  the  road  to  Osses,  which  is 
crowded  with  people — old  people  mostly,  where  we  finally 
take  train  for  Bayonne. 

As  I  enter  Bayonne  I  recall  distinctly  a  description  of 
the  customs  of  the  ladies  of  this  town  by  Madame  Aulnoy, 
who  passed  through  it  in  1679.  She  says  : 

"  These  Women  begin  here  to  feel  the  scorching  Heats  of  the  Sun  ; 
their  Complexion  is  dark,  their  Eyes  sparkling  ;  they  are  charming 
enough,  their  Wits  are  sharp  :  And  I  could  give  you  a  farther  Ac- 
count of  their  Capacities,  could  I  have  better  understood  what  they 
said  :  not  but  that  they  could  all  speak  French,  yet  with  such  a  differ- 
ent Dialect  as  surpast  my  Understanding. 

"  Some  who  came  to  see  me,  brought  little  sucking  Pigs  under  their 
Arms,  as  we  do  little  Dogs  :  it 's  true  they  were  very  spruce,  and  sev- 
eral of  'em  had  Collars  of  Ribbons,  of  various  Colours  :  However, 
this  Custom  looks  very  odd,  and  1  cannot  but  think  that  several  among 
themselves  are  disgusted  at  it  :  When  they  danced,  they  must  let  them 
down,  and  let  these  grunting  Animals  run  about  the  Chamber,  where 
they  make  a  very  pleasant  Harmony.  These  Ladies  danc'd  at  my  In- 
treaty,  the  Baron  of  Castleneau  having  sent  for  Pipes  and  Tabors. 

"  The  Gentlemen  who  attended  the  Ladies,  took  each  of  'em  her 
whom  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  the  Dance  began  in  a  Round,  all 
holding  Hands  :  they  had  afterwards  long  Canes  brought  them,  and 
then  each  Spark  taking  hold  of  his  Lady's  handkerchief,  which  sepa- 
rated them  from  one  another,  moved  very  gracefully  at  the  Sound  of 
this  Martial  sort  of  Musick,  which  inspired  them  with  such  Heat,  that 
they  seemed  not  to  be  able  to  moderate  it.  This  seemed  to  me  to  re- 
semble the  Pyrric  Dance  so  much  celebrated  by  the  Ancients  ;  for  these 
Gentlemen  and  Ladies  made  so  many  Turns,  Frisks  and  Capers,  their 
Canes  being  thrown  into  the  Air,  and  dexterously  caught  again,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  describe  their  Art  and  Agility  :  And  I  had  a  great 
deal  of  Pleasure  in  seeing  'em  ;  but  methoughts  it  lasted  too  long,  and 
I  began  to  grow  weary  of  this  ill-ordered  Ball  :  When  the  Baron  de 


256  A  Note-Book  in  Northern  Spain 

Castleneau,  who  perceiv'd  it,  caused  several  Baskets  of  dried  Fruit  to 
be  brought  in.  They  are  the  Jews  who  pass  for  Portuguese,  and  dwell 
at  Bayonne,  who  transport  them  from  Genoa,  and  furnish  all  the  Coun- 
try with  them.  We  wanted  not  for  Limonade,  and  other  refreshing 
Waters,  of  which  these  Ladies  drank  heartily  ;  and  so  the  Entertain- 
ment ended." 


INDEX. 


Abach'a,  Juan,  154,  155,  156 

Adamaro,  bishop  of  Huesca,  reconstructs 
the  cathedra],  172 

Africano,  et,  see  Bellon 

Ager,  archives  of,  168 

Aguardiente,  146 

Alabaster  carving,  see  Huesca 

Albardas  or  pack-saddles,  63 

Alcala  de  Henares,  129 

Alcanadre,  246 

Aldomate,  233 

Alfonso  II.,  captures  Teruel  in  1171,  138 

Alfonso  III.,  church  of  Santiago  recon- 
structed by  him,  37 

Alfonso  of  Castile,  140 

Almanzor,  n 

Alpargatas,  78 

Amphora  vinarice,  66 

Anzanigo,  182 

Aois,  250 

Arabic  box  in  Pamplona,  236 

Aragon,  character  of  the  Aragonese,  145  ; 
peculiarities  of  the  architecture,  146  ; 
river,  224 

Aragonese  giant,  191 

Arbor  day,  124 

Arbues,  Pedro  de,  Master  of  Epila.  His 
persecution  of  the  Jews  at  Zaragoza, 
152  ;  plot  to  kill  him,  153,  154  ;  his 
death,  155 

Arga  river,  239 

Arjona,  Francisco,  called  Curro  Cuckares, 
118  ;  his  generosity,  120 

Art,  religious,  in  Zaragoza,  162 

Astorga,  46,  49 


Athanasius,   companion   of  Saint  James, 

36 

Athenasia,  60 
Atienza,   133 

Aulnoy,  Madame,  quoted,  87 
Avignon,  151 
Ayegui,  town  of,  246 
Ayerve,  Marquises  of,  180 
Ayuntamientos  of  Huesca,  167 
Azagra,  Don  Fernandez  de,  141 

Ballabar,  Ezmel,  a  Moor,  associated  in 
the  building  of  the  Torre  Nueva  of 
Zaragoza,  161 

Banderillas,  103 

Baptism  in  Jaca,  185 

Barabas,  the  bull,  97 

Barbastro,  Jews  there  invited  to  aid  in  the 
murder  of  Pedro  de  Arbues,  153 

Barcaiztegui,  Martin,  called  Martincho, 
1 06 

Barranca  de  Santa  Cruz,  202 

Becerro,  Jaspar,  his  retablo  at  Astorga, 
46  ;  his  Christ  inspired  by  the  Virgin, 
46 

Beggars  of  Estella,  240 

Bell  of  Aragon,  175 

Bellon,  Manuel,  El  Africano,  his  his- 
tory, 105 

Bells,  constructed  for  the  Torre  Nueva  of 
Zaragoza,  161 

Bells  of  Santiago  set  up  in  the  Mosque  of 
Cordova  inverted  as  lamps,  40 

Benedict  XIII.,  see  Luna 

Berenger,  Count  of  Barcelona,  168 


257 


258 


Index 


Berlina  of  a  stage-coach,  59 

Bernues,  183 

Biescas,  186 

Bilbilis  road,  7 

Biscuits,  70 

Bitorino  Parejo,  69  ;  her  insanity  and 
treatment,  71 

Blacksmith's  torch  of  red-hot  iron,  240 

Boccacio,  137 

Boticas  Hondas,  155 

Bowring's  description  of  the  religious 
condition  in  1819,  3 

Brick-work  on  the  Torre  Nueva  of  Zara- 
goza,  161 

Brigantium,  Roman  road  to,  36 

Brooklyn  Bridge,  discussion  as  to  its 
width,  192 

Bullfighting  in  Italy  in  1332,  fatal  re- 
sults, 98  ;  origin,  97  ;  slow  develop- 
ment in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries,  98  ;  its  cruelty,  95  ;  its  ef- 
fect, 97  ;  it  becomes  a  popular  sport 
no  longer  confined  to  the  nobility,  102  ; 
mutilation,  97 

Bullfights,  grandeur  of,  under  Philip  IV., 
101 

Bull-ring,  the,  94 


Caballero  de  Plaza,  origin  of,  99 

Calatayud,  133  ;  Jews  there  invited  to  aid 
in  the  murder  of  Pedro  de  Arbues,  153 

Caldares,  194  ;  river,  194 

Candido,  Jose,  106  ;  his  death,  107 

Canfranc,  the  railroad  to,  182 

Caparrosa,  248 

Carabineros  ;  a  halt  at  their  house,  194 

Carlos  III.,  his  attempt  to  stop  bullfight- 
ing, 107 

Carlos  of  Navarre,  his  bullfights,  98 

Carlos  of  Viana,  172 

Carmona,  Antonio,  el  gordito,  121 

Casetas,  248 

Casino  in  a  Spanish  town,  190 

Caspe,  157 

Catano,  Baltasar,  90 


Caves  of  Rey  Cintoulo  and  A  Furada  d'os 
Cans,  IT 

Cave  of  the  Virgin,  start  for,  217  ;  ar- 
rival, 219 

Chain,  broken  at  Navas  de  Tolosa,  141 

Charles  V.  as  a  bullfighter,  101 

Cid  Campeador,  133  ;  called  the  first  bull- 
fighter, 98 

Cimborio  of  the  Seo  of  Zaragoza  given  by 
Pope  Luna,  149 

Clavijo,  battle  of,  doubtfulness  of  the 
event,  37 

Coffee  toasters,  77 

Coffin  of  the  Emperor  Charles  at  Yuste, 
72 

Cofradias,  4 

College  of  bullfighters,  115 

Complutum,  130 

Compostela,  Archivo  of,  34 

Corn  bread  and  wine  for  a  horse,  44 

Coruiia,  arrival  there  from  Cuba,  14  ; 
city  of,  10  ;  province  of,  15 

Coso  of  Zaragoza,  147 

Costillares,  see  Joaquin  Rodriguez 

Crosses,  66,  238 

Cross  of  Yuste,  72  ;  the  Angels,  Oviedo, 

57 
Cuarentenas,  58 


Dacian  ;  his  persecutions,  131 

Datnas  Hinard  ;  his  edition  of  the  Cid 
Poem,  85 

Delantero  of  a  stage-coach,  23 

Delgado,  Jose — Pepe  Hillo — Pupil  of  Cos- 
tillares, no;  rival  of  Pedro  Romero, 
no  ;  his  life,  in  ;  recklessness,  in  ; 
his  dramatic  death,  112,  113 

Departments,  Spain  divided  into,  164 

Dominguez,  his  loss  of  an  eye  in  the  bull- 
ring, 97 

Dona  Ximenez,  wife  of  the  Cid,  said  to 
be  buried  in  San  Juan  dela  Pena,  210 

Don  Juan  of  Aragon  and  Navarre,  172 

Door  of  Arabic  construction  in  San  Juan 
de  la  Pena,  213 


Index 


259 


Drake,  fear  of  him  in  Spain,  42  ;  Spanish 
conception  of  his  character,  42 

Dress  of  the  Zagal,  24 

Dueroand  Tamega  rivers  ;  marble  brought 
from  their  shores  on  the  backs  of  cap- 
tives for  the  construction  of  the  church 
of  Santiago,  37 

Durango,  Vidal,  154  ;  drawn,  quartered 
and  burned,  156 

Eagles  in  the  mountains  of  Aragon,  167 

Ebro,  the  river,  157 

Ebro  y  Cinca,  Huesca,  capital  of,  167 

Education,  6 

El  Tato,  lost  a  leg  in  the  bull-ring,  97 

Enchanted  lady  of  the  Mount  d'as  croas, 

13 

Esco  river,  224  ;  town  of,  224 
Esculapians,  the  Vicar-general  of,  245 
Espinillera,  m  gregoriana  first  used,  102 
Estella  ;  start  for,   239  ;  arrival,  240  ;  a 

question  of   inheritance,  243 

Fences  ;  wanting  in  the  Spanish  landscape, 

178 

Ferrer,  Jaime,  of  Lerida,  161 
Fever,  treatment  for,  75 
Fig,  the,  234 
Figs,  182 

Fonda  de  la  Per  la,  235 
Forment,  Damian  ;  his  Gothic  altar  in  the 

Cathedral  of  Zaragoza,  159  ;  his  retablo 

at  Monte  Aragon,  177 
Fountain,  first  in  Zaragoza,  named  after 

Isabel  II.,  156;  method   of    drawing 

water  at,  156 
Frotardo,  Abbot,  175 

Galicia,  province  of,  10  ;  a  misty  country, 

15  ;  language  ;  10  ;  homesickness,  10 
Gallegan,  interior,  a,  24 
Gallego  river,  164  ;  181 
Game  in  the  mountains  of  Aragon,  167 
Garces,  Fortun,  138  ;  Martin,  138 
Garcia  de  Moros,  153  ;  burned,  156 
Garcia  I.,  138 


Garci  Ximenez,  203  ;  and  Ifiigo   Arista, 

described  on  bas-relief  of  San  Juan  de 

la  Pena,  211 

Garganta  de  Gargliera,  64 
Garrocha,  vara  or  pica,  its  introduction, 

103 

Caspar  de  Santa  Cruz,  153 
Gas,  river,  202 

Gate  of  the  Marlires  de  Guadalajara,  131 
Giant,  Aragonese,  191 
Girolamo  and  Salvestra,  story  of,  137 
Gold  of  Galicia,  17 
Gombao,  Gabriel,   master  builder  of  the 

Torre  Nueva  of  Zaragoza,  161 
Gormaz,  133 
Goya,  Francisco,  his  pictures  of  Martin- 

cho,   106 

Gregoriana,  see  Espinillera 
Gregory  XI.,  151 
Gypsies,  222 

Hartzenbusch,  Don  Juan  Eugenio,  137  ; 
his  life,  138 

Hogs,  familiar  with  their  own  homes,  74  ; 
in  the  streets  of  Plasencia,  61 

Horse-shoeing,   cheapness  of,   193 

Horse  ;  the  while  horse  of  Saint  James, 
at  Clavijo,  38 

House  of  the  Seven  Chimneys,  87  ;  thought 
to  be  haunted,  88 

Iluesca;  population,  168  ;  alabaster  carv- 
ing by  Damian  Forment,  159  ;  Cathe- 
dral of,  170  ;  purification  of  cathedral 
of,  172 

Huesca  Diaris,  newspaper,  191 

Huesca,  province  of,  164 

Idozin,  234 

Ihrache,  convent  of,  242 

Illueca,  birthplace  of  Pedro  de  Luna,  151 

Ince  de  Gali,  a  Jew  associated  in  the 
building  of  the  Torre  Nueva  of  Zara- 
goza, 161 

Inigo  Arista,  see  Garcia  Ximenez 

Isabella,  the  Catholic  opposed  to  bull- 
fighting, 100 

Izca,  233 


260 


Index 


Jaca,  start  for,  178  ;  arrival,  184 

Jalon,  133 

Jaraiz,  67 

Jarama  river,  129 

Jerte  river,  59 

Joaquin  Rodriguez,  known  as  Costillares, 
his  life,  108  ;  invents  the  volapie,  109 

Joppa,  the  remains  of  Saint  James  taken 
from  there  to  Spain,  35 

Juan  Gomez  y  Leon,  Don,  244 

Judaizantes ,  153 

Justo  and  Pastor,  Saints,  131  ;  their  mar- 
tyrdom, 132 

Keys  of  Monte  Aragon,  177 
Kjoekkenmoeddings,  12 

La  Mota  and  Segovia,  towers  of ,  159 

Landscape,  monotony  in  Spain,  I 

Ledesma,  Juan  de,  90 

Leopoldo,  186 

Leyre,  start  for,  221  ;  the  monastery  of, 

226 

Liberodunum,  36 

Llaguno  y  Amirola,  Don   Eugenio  de,  84 
Local  priests,  232 
Lonja  of  Zaragoza,  157 
Lorenzo,  see  Saint  Valero 
Lottery  tickets,  79 
Lourdes,  253 

Lovers  of  Teruel,  the,  137 
Lugo,  10 
Lumbier,  233 
Luna,    Pedro     de,     Antipope     Benedict 

XIII. ,  150;  his  life,  151 

Madrid,  its  environment  desolate,  124 

Magdalena,  La,  162 

Maldonado,  Dona  Ana,  89  ;  Don  Juan 
Arias,  89 

Manchino,  Ascanio,  special  rights  con- 
trolling bullfighting  in  Valencia  grant- 
ed him  by  Philip  III.,  lor 

Maragatos,  50;  customs,  50,  51  ;  Muria, 
a  Maragato  town,  51 


Marcilla  and  Segura,  story  of,  137  • 
Blasco  Garces  de,  138  ;  Juan  Diego, 

139 

Maros,  218 

Afartincho,  see  Barcaiztegui 

Matador,  the  office  developed  by  Ro- 
mero, 104 

Mayoral,  17 

Medinceli,  133 

Miedes,  133 

Milagro,  248 

Millan,  Pascual,  discovery  of  early  bull- 
fighting, 98 

Mirabel,  Marquis  of,  owner  of  Yuste,  72 

Miracles,  4 

Miraculous,  appearance  of  Saint  James  to 
King  Kamiro  at  Clavijo,  39  ;  ship  in 
which  the  body  of  Saint  James  was 
taken  to  Spain,  35 

Mojoneras,  179 

Mona  or  Espinillera  (q.  v.)  introduced, 
102 

Moncayo,  Sierra  de,  248 

Monferriz,  Master,  associated  in  the 
building  of  the  Torre  Nueva  of  Zara- 
goza, 161 

Monreal,  234,  Monreal  de  Ariza,  133 

Monte  Aragon,  174  ;  expedition  to,  177  ; 
ruined  castle  of,  in  Huesca,  168 

Monte  Rubio,  Pedro  de,  successor  of 
Pedro  de  Arbues  as  Inquisitor  of  Zara- 
goza, 156 

Monies,  Francisco,  115 

Montesa,  Jaime,  153 

Montpellier,  University  of,  151 

Moore's  house  in  Astorga,  49 

Moorish  pirates,  41 

Morente,  245 

Mozo  de  cor  del,  78 

Muleta,  the  ;  its  introduction,  103 

Munoces,  family  feuds  between  them 
and  the  Marcillas,  139 

Murder  of  Pedro  de  Arbues,  155 

Muria,  town  of,  see  Maragatos,  51 

Murillo,  town  of,  181 

Museo  of  pictures  of  Huesca,  173 


Index 


261 


National  decline,  causes  of,  5 

Navas   de    Tolosa,    140;    a   fragment  of 

chain  broken  there,  252 
New  Convent  of   San  Juan   de  la  Pena, 

203 
Newspaper,  a  weekly,  of  Huesca,  170 

Olite,  248 

Olivan,  186 

Olotzaga,  Juan  de,  architect  of  the  Ca- 
thedral of  Huesca,  172 

Ordono  I.,  gifts  to  the  Church  of  Santi- 
ago, 37 

Orense,  10 

Oroel,  the  mountain  of,  201  ;  the  top  of 
the  mountain,  218 

Oviedo,  52  ;  the  chest  of,  52  ;*its  con- 
tents, 54  ;  its  history,  53 

Pablo,  San,  162 

Padre  Felix,  185 

Palace  of  the  Kings  of  Aragon,  175 

Palomo,  Pedro,  116 

Pamplona,  235  ;  a  small  guide,  237  ;  capi- 
tals from  the  early  cathedral,  237 

Panticosa,  194  ;  out  of  season,  195 

Pasaron,  66 

Paseo  de  Santa  Engracia  ;  fountain  there, 
156 

Pastor,  Juan,  (el  barbaro)  see  Justo,  119 

Pastry,  women  selling,  in  Zaragoza,  157 

Peasants  of  Lerida,  164 

Pedro  II.  of  Aragon,  140 

Pelota,  8 1 

Peniscola,  last  home  of  Pope  Luna,  151 

Pepe  //illo,  see  Delgado 

Peppers,  246 

Perez,  Antonio,  89  ;  his  daring  in  facing 
a  lioness,  97 

Pickled  fish,  71 

Pidal,  Don  Alejandro,  Si  ;  Jose,  85 

Pilar,  the  Cathedral  of,  in  Zaragoza,  157 

Pilgrimage  to  Santiago,  21 

Pius  V.'s  ordinance  against  bullfighting, 
100 

Plasencia,  179:  trip  from  Madrid,  59; 
the  station,  59  ;  Fonda  del  Oeste,  60 


Plaza  Mayor  of  Plasencia,  61 

Plaza  of  the  Seo,  155 

Poem  of  the  Cid,  8 1  ;  sent  to  Boston,  86 

Polituera,  193 

Pontevedra,  10 

Portazgo  Provincial,  234 

Posada  de  la  Guama,  225 

Prehistoric  remains  of  Galicia,  n 

Proposed  railroads,  22 

Provinces,  Spain  cut  up  into,  167 

Prudentius,  147 

Puente  La  Reina,  239 

Purification  of  the  Cathedral  of  Huesca, 

172 
Pyrenees,  smuggling  there,  196 

Quicena,  town  of,  177 

Railroads,  slowness  of  their  construction 

in  Spain,  7 
Ramiro,  King,  175 
Rauch,  226 
Rejonnlla,  the,  103 
Relics  of  Saint  James,  44 
Robert  of  Geneva,  151 
Rojas  y  Sandoval,  Don  Cristoval ;  his  fear 

at  attempting  to  open  the  box  of  Oviedo, 

52 

Romero,  Francisco,  104,  105 
Romero  Pedro,  115 
Roncesvalles,  251 
Ruesta,  224 
Ruiz,  Fernandez,  141 

Sagasta,  portraits  of,  186 

Saint  Biril,  legend  of,  228 

Saint  Felix  of  Zaragoza,   205,  206 

Saint  Ferdinand,  uses  captives  as  beasts 

of  burden,  40 

Saint  George,  Church  of  the  Huesca,  168 
Saint  Hubertus  of  Luettich  and  the  stag, 

205 

Saint  James,  his  journey  to  Spain,  158  ;  his 
preaching  in  the  Asturias,  158  ;  the  Vir- 
gin appears  to  him,  158  ;  column  of 
marble  on  which  the  Virgin  appeared 
to  him,  158 


262 


Index 


Saint  Sernin,  Church  of,  30 
Saints  Valero,  Vicente,  and  Lorenzo,  busts 
of ;  presented  to  the  Seoof  Zaragoza  by 
Pope  Luna,  149 

Saint  Voto  of  Zaragoza,  205,  206 
Salary  of  bullfighters,  no 
Salinas  de  Monreal,  234 
Salto  del  lestuz,  invented  by  Candido,  106 
Sal  to  de  Roldan,  169 
Sanchez,  Don  Tomas  Antonio,  84  ;  San- 
chez Gabriel,  treasurer   of   Ferdinand, 
152  ;  Sanchez  Geronimo,  153  ;  Juan,  153 
Sancho  the  Great,  248 
Sandoval,  Prudencio  de,  84 
Sanguesa,  233 

San  Juan  de  la  Pena,  198  ;  discovery  of, 
205;   Royal  burial  chamber,  210;  the 
cloisters,  213  ;  Abbots  of,  213 
San  Pedro,   Church  of,  in  T cruel,    143  ; 

gate  of  Jaca,  185 

Santangel,     Louis    Sanchez,     153  ;    con- 
demned to  be  decapitated  and  his  body 
burned,  156 
Santa  Orosia,  184 

Santiago  de  Compostela,  visitors  to,  41 
Santiago,  Church  of,  restored  by  Alfonso 

HI.,  37 

Sarifiena,  Juan  de,  associated  in  the  build- 
ing of  the  Torre  Nueva  of  Zaragoza, 
161 

Seal  of  the  Templars,  in  Huesca,  168 
Seals  first  employed  in  Aragon  by  Pedro 

II.,  168 

Segura,  Dona  Isabel  de,  139  ;  her  death, 
142  ;  Don  Pedro  de,  139  ;  Church  of 
San  Pedro,  142 

Seo  of  Zaragoza,   148  ;  lacking  in  archi- 
tectural beauty,  149  ;  Pedro  de  Arbues 
killed  there,  152 
Serena,  or  night  watchman,  28 
Sertorins,  171 
Sesma,  245 

Sewing-machine  in  Spain,  2  ;  234 
Sierra  de  Guara,  168  ;  Leyre,  223 
Silo,  the  wife  of,  68 
Singing  at  Monte  Aragon,  174 


Smuggling,  an  attempt  at,  185 

Spanish,  bravery,   133  ;  cities,  divergence 

in    character    of,     145 ;    ferries,     233  ; 

knives,    128  ;  pride,  2  ;  railways,   191  ; 

soldiers,  234 
Speech  by  a  mayoral,  19 
Sperandeu,  Juan,  154  ;  drawn,  quartered, 

and  burned,  156 
Stage-coach,  8-21 
Start  for  Pamplona,  231 
Starting  from  Madrid,  123 
St.  Jean  Pied  de  Port,  253 
Street  names,  individuality  of,  in  Spanish 

cities,  148 

Substitutes  for  wood,  24 
Suspension-bridge,  182 
Swearing,  9 

Tambre  River,  24 

Tamega  River,  37 

Tejeda,  64 

Templars,  end  of,  168  ;  in  Huesca,  168 

Teruel,  captured  by  Alfonso  II.,  138 

Theodemir,  Bishop  of  Tria,  33 

Theodoras,  companion  of  Saint  James, 
36 

Thieves,  the  story  of  kguardia  civil,  248 

Tiermas,  224 

Tin  of  Galicia,  17 

Tizon,  Dona  Constanza  Perez,  138 

Toll-gatherer,  190 

Tomb  of  Santiago,  discovery  of,  34 

Tombs  in  San  Juan  de  la  Pena,  209 

Tower  of  Hercules  of  Coruna,  15  ;  Tot  re 
Nueva  of  Zaragoza,  159  ;  Calatayud, 
leaning,  160 

Towers  in  Spanish  landscapes,  159 

Trading  spirit,  absence  of,  5 

Trees,  rarity  of,  167 

Trenque  of  Zaragoza,  154 

Ttunbo  A  of  the  manuscript  of  Compos- 
tela, 34 

Urries,  Hugo  de,  180 ;  deprived  of  his 
barony,  181 


Index 


263 


Urroz,  248 

Uzeda,  Duke  of,  130 

Valcarlos,  152 
Valero,  see  Saint  Valero 
Veral  River,  223 
Verdun,  223 

Vicente,  see  Saint  Valero 
Villaba,  248 
Villanueva,  168 
Volapi/?,  invented  by  Costillares,  109 

Wyclif,  151 


Ximenez,  Cardinal  Francisco,  130 

Yesa,  temporary  resting  place  of  bodies 

from  Ley  re,  231 
Yuste,  first  view,  67 

Zagal,  20 
Zaragoza,  145 

Zaragoza,   best  views  of,   162  ;    first  im- 
pressions, 148  ;  influences  exerted  upon 

it,  145 
Zizur,  239 
Zuera,  164 


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